Contents Under Pressure
by redphlox
Summary: After expulsion from Julliard, Soul lands a modeling contract at Mjolnir Strikes. There he meets Maka, a perky stylist who aspires to surpass her mama's legacy as a fashion designer and captures his attention with her tireless ambition and infectious smile. Will their partnership survive his overnight celebrity status, her perfectionist tendencies, and malicious paparazzi? ModelAU
1. like a gravitational pull

ahh here is my late resbang entry for 2015. please take a moment to go to my tumblr (username redphlox) and view the lovely art that ifeanart and gemini-chan made for this fic! they are incredibly sweet and talented and wonderful to work with - please shower them with praises and compliments.

thanks so much to ProMa, Tens, Bendy, Nessie, and Lunar, and K for taking the time to beta! special shoutout to my bae-boo Nessie, who helped me tremendously with plotting. i want to also thank my friends for listening to my screaming and crying during the writing process.

* * *

 _warnings_ : depression, stalking, swearing, second-hand embarrassment, angst, and minor character death before the start of the fic. don't worry though - there is also plenty of kissing and fluff.

Summary: Being expelled from Juilliard tilts Soul Evans' world off its axis, and he finds himself in the unlikely position of landing a modeling contract at Mjlinor Strikes when Wes comes into contact with an old friend. After hitting rock bottom and having nothing to lose but money to gain, he accepts. His decision brings him to one Maka Albarn, a perky stylist who aspires to surpass her mother's legacy as a fashion designer, and captures Soul's attention with her tireless ambition and infectious smile. Their partnership forms over silent understandings and good natured teasing, but will it survive the pressure of Soul's overnight celebrity status, Maka's perfectionist tendencies, and malicious paparazzi? Model AU **  
**

 **Contents under Pressure  
** Chapter 1: like a gravitational pull

Soul's fascination with Maka Albarn is instantaneous.

With the clicking of heels on pristine floors matching his pulse's rhythm, she waltzes through the double doors with a calm confidence that he envies. She has a sureness about her, like she never puts the wrong foot down, and it's both magnetizing and overwhelming. Neat pigtails shouldn't enthrall him, but they do, in the same way that the sway of her hips commands attention.

Clipboard in hand, she's a perfect picture of enthusiasm as she wanders through the commotion of the photoshoot, curiosity tugging at her features. Repeated blinks do nothing to distract Soul from admiring toned arms and the way she holds herself upright. She carries a quiet radiance with her that he can't quite name - and this is when he begins to suspect that he may be a bit of a closeted romantic.

The few seconds before her green eyes meet his are like the ascent of a roller coaster. Anticipation simmers in his belly, fingertips buzzing from the thrill of the impending bump that precedes the drop. No amount of preparation can stop the way his stomach flips just a little bit when she first spots him and blinks slowly, how she pauses mid-stride.

It happens very quickly - a drop, a fall, a change. Soul stops wondering if he can return to other moments that have ended, a speck of hope daring to ask if this is finally a path that doesn't lead to dead ends, if the desensitization will be lifted from his life. Mistakes are his specialty, after all.

As the photographer tells him to "tilt your chin", the clicks resume and head toward him.

Posing in front of the camera changes him. He's not Soul Evans anymore, epic disappointment of a musician and inadequate carrier of the family name. That phase of his life is over. The moment he'd stepped onto the set and in front of the camera had marked the start of something new, something that will steer him into feeling more than dread when he thinks about how little he's accomplished compared to anyone else.

There's a blinding flash from the camera, and when the blurry spots dancing in his field of vision fade, she's only a few steps from being beside him.

"I'm Maka Albarn. Can I meet with you?" she asks, already holding out her hand.

She has the kind of smile that glows with sincerity and disarms at a whim, and he can't do anything but stare, slack-jawed.

Soul knows he's a goner. He knows he won't be able to smother the interest sparked by a name and damns himself over and over again for liking her silvery voice this much already.

 _Fuck_.

* * *

"It's been three hours! How'd it go?"

"It went super duper, Wes."

"How super duper? What exactly happened?"

"There were people and someone gave me their business card."

"Details, Soul."

"Uhh… There was a line when I went into the room, and a couple of people came in and pulled some of us out of the line to talk. I was one of them. They asked for my portfolio and they gave it back after the shoot."

"Shoot?"

"Headshots and stuff, and some in character."

"What did they say about your portfolio?"

"I guess they liked it? They marked a few things... You don't need to babysit me, Wes."

"Can I see it? Jackie wants to know how it went too, so be sure to give her a call - oh, shit. What do these post-it notes on some of your pictures mean?"

"The coordinator told me she wants copies of them."

"That's a good sign, isn't it? What else happened?"

"During the shoot, someone pulled me out and took me to meet your friend Marie Mjolnir."

"The designer herself! Soul, that's _incredible_ -"

"What? Why didn't you tell me she owns the company? You didn't mention that when you were talking me into doing this."

"You would've been worried about making a good impression. It worked out, anyway, I assume. What's the next step?"

"... Well, I didn't exactly sign on completely yet. I told her I'd think about it."

"Soul! That practically translates into a 'no'."

"Marie said she'd wait until I can get back to her."

"Why aren't you sure you want to model? You seemed mildly excited about it when we were on our way to the open call."

"Being signed on right then and there seemed too good to be true… too easy."

"That's the curse of being so good looking."

"Stop it, Wes."

"When you decide to let her know that you'll do it, let me know. I should give her a call-"

"Wait, did you ask Marie for this favor?"

"Everything's going to work out."

"You did something. Just tell me what you did."

"Suspicion isn't healthy, little brother."

"I don't need your pity or your help. Also, you didn't have to fly all the way out here just to drive me to the open call. I'm not exactly living up to the Evans standards, getting kicked of college before I could flunk out, but I'm not doing too terribly. I know our parents think I'm just crashing at Kilik's with no plans but-fuck, I messed up at Juilliard, I already know that, but I know I can do this. How hard could it be to pose in front of a camera, anyway?"

"They - well, all of us are worried. I'm worried. You've been moping around for months now. Mom and Dad haven't disowned you, Soul. You can always come back home. You don't have to go through with this if you don't want to, you know. You could always go back to school and get a degree in something else."

"Don't. I'm never going back. Mom might like having a bunch of letters and titles after her name, but I'm fine. Everything's fine. Let me do things for myself."

"Maybe you could even go to another college and do music. I'm being serious, Soul, give me a second to explain -"

"I want to be someone, I just don't know who. Now this modeling agency can tell me exactly who to be."

"That's not how it works, and even if all that's true, then why didn't you say yes immediately?"

"Uhm - err… Doesn't your plane leave soon? You're going to miss it, Wes. You should leave. I think I can walk back to the apartment by myself."

"You don't even have to go back to school - where are you going?"

"Away from you. Don't follow me."

* * *

There's nothing more satisfying to Soul than the metal door thundering shut, cutting off whatever else his perfect brother has to say about 'not trying hard enough.' Breathing takes less effort when he's not surrounded by Wes' constant parenting. It may be evasive of him, but Soul can't stand in the same hallway as Wes for a full three minutes without the cheating incident surfacing. Defense mechanism or not, Soul would just rather not talk about it – failure isn't his preferred cologne fragrance. He doesn't need it looming around him constantly.

Repression, though?

That's his shit right there, patented and copyrighted.

Scowling, Soul punches his hands into his pockets, realizing that the exit he had taken led to the backside of the building. Wes had been his ride, too, because he travels in style even if he's only in town for a day. Soul could use this opportunity to fume on a crowded and stuffy bus the whole way to Kilik's apartment - he doesn't have a thing to his name right now - and shake the indecisiveness away.

Problems with Wes aside, Soul still wants this gig to work out. Fashion isn't exactly the ideal lifestyle his parents had blueprinted out for him, or even how Soul had imagined things unfolding, but his current painful reality includes an absence of money and a greater sense of defectiveness. The longer he sleeps on Kilik's couch without pitching in rent, the emptier his existence feels.

This has to work out.

It has to.

 _It has to._

He can overlook the glaring nepotism. It will require biting his tongue until it bleeds and loathing himself twice as much for needing special treatment, but he can be blind if that's what it takes.

But is he just that - unworthy and incapable on his own?

Soul is stomping past a bench when a voice calls out to him.

"Oh – hey, Soul!" Maka is half shrouded in shadows from the nearby cluster of trees. The sunset light curves over the slope of her nose and lips and Soul doesn't know how to handle wisps of her hair sailing in the cool breeze. Stifling the unreasonable urge to tuck them back into their neat place, Soul summons the strongest facade of coolness he's ever pulled, but she sees right through it.

"Didn't want to go home, either?" she asks brightly. Phone clutched in her lap like she has given up on waiting for a promised call, she holds her shoulder back in the same tired way Soul used to when he was sick to his soul of practicing piano, stress alone keeping his back muscles firing.

"Something like that," Soul allows, and then surprises himself by adding, "I'm just avoiding everything, like I always do."

Shit. Sarcasm probably won't endear him to anyone. Models are friendly, approachable, and not sharp tongued. The odds of making a quick buck to prove his worth to his parents dwindles the more he slouches, but he can't help it. Soul consists of three fourths _fuck this_ , an eighth of _no_ , a sixteenth of _I really don't care_ , and the rest of quiet, empty desperation. If there's room for hope, he's the last to know.

Maka doesn't tell him to stand tall or stop frowning. She only looks at him uncertainly. "Let's drop the formalities?"

Relief entails plopping down next to Maka without worrying about appearances. "I'd like that."

Calm settles between them. Soul lets go of worried thoughts like snipping away at threads that attach him to anchors, and Maka stuffs her phone into her purse. After he'd taken her hand at the photoshoot, his head had spun in a whirlwind of disbelief. They actually want to hire him, holy shit.

"You were okay today," Maka begins.

Soul huffs. "I was more than okay, the way you were staring at me." Cringing inwardly, Soul berates himself - was this too snarky?

She isn't shaken. "Marie is really interested in you. Says you're perfect because you have a unique look."

Resentment compels Soul to think that Wes had probably had a hand in this comment, too, but it doesn't stop all of the air in his lungs from being siphoned out by these few words, because Soul is breathless. Of all the gimmicks to fail, modeling should be the one to crash and burn in a millisecond. Inspired by the last resort type of anxiety, Soul's decision to show up for the open call was encouraged by his overbearing brother, who has more connections than a phone operator.

"I'm not sure if I want to do it," Soul admits. "During the photo shoot I realized I'd been hoping I could go back to music somehow, but… that's not going to happen."

Maka's a stranger. He isn't sure why he's spilling his inner thoughts to someone who could potentially be his boss. If anything, he should be wary, since she could be involved in Wes' nosy schemes.

"I'll be honest with you, Soul. You have a lot of potential. Even if you start out small and do an ad here or there, you could work your way up to other modeling gigs, if that's what you want."

Soul had been speechless during the meeting. It had been such a blur, he can't remember anything but Marie's kind enthusiasm and Maka looking interestedly at him. "You sound so sure. Are you a model, too?"

Maka titters. "I'm a stylist. I'm going to build myself up and become a designer. Marie does let me design some of the clothes we use onset, but that's between the two of us - and you, now."

Soul winks. "I pinky promise not to tell anyone. What kind of clothes do you design?"

"Why do you ask? Are you Interested?" Perfectly groomed eyebrows waggle playfully and Soul can't help but feel his cheeks inflame in response. He's never been smooth or witty, so his retort is an embarrassing knot of misdelivered snark. Shame doesn't discourage him from fumbling through another attempt at good natured mockery. It should be the reason that Maka turns tail and decides he isn't anything more than a pretender, but his heart strums as he is rewarded with more laughter.

Maybe he's met his match, too. "Being tongue-tied isn't cool."

Redeeming what little of his ego he had had left is out of the question now, so Soul hushes up and glares while she pulls herself together.

"It's fine. We said we'd drop the formalities..." She's cheery to the point of frustration, even when Soul is struggling to keep the corners of his lips tucked down in his well practiced frown.

"I'll show you my portfolio if you come with me to dinner," she tantalizes, holding up a leather folder to cover the lower half of her face, waving it.

Soul weighs his options.

Sh is a lithe thing in a maroon skirt that would reveal eighty percent of her long legs if they weren't covered by the black stockings. Nothing about her stark white long sleeved shirt particularly screams 'fashionista' to Soul. Even her nails are trimmed to well-maintained perfection. Accepting the invitation would be insane - she seems like she could dig the pointy end of her heel into his neck with a swift kick and then offer her hand to help him up, all in one graceful movement.

Trust normally doesn't come easily for him. It's a foreign concept to him, especially when his peers had more often than not acted polite during practices but would have smacked their competition with a music stand at any moment if it meant getting first chair, or even playing a solo that consists of three notes.

He's Soul Evans, perpetually alone and hesitant to mingle - this dinner should be strictly professional despite the laidback relationship he and Maka have established for themselves. Saying no to free food would be a sin. Secretly hoping to learn just a little bit more about her, he stands up and cants his head in the direction of his favorite diner.

"There's a good place a few blocks away," he suggests, leading the way.

* * *

Holes perforate the faded leather of the booth he and Maka slide into, menus propped open. The last orange sunset rays give way into silver mists that accompany twilight. Even in this light Maka looks almost otherworldly, wearied but exuding a warm confidence. A little voice in his head reprimands him for bringing someone with standards to the greasiest burger joint in the state; Maka looks so out of place against the chipped wall paint and faded posters.

Their waiter swoops in on them before Soul can suggest another location.

Salad and a triple pattied burger with the works ordered, Maka turns to him.

"Evans," she repeats, gears in her mind turning. "I've heard that name before. Ahh - are you related to Wes Evans?"

"He's my brother." Hate carries a strong sting, but so does the whip that attacks Soul whenever the connection between him and world renowned violinist and composer Wes Evans is revealed. Even when he's nowhere in sight, his older brother's influence is stretched out before Soul like an infinite horizon he doesn't want to look at. If anything, Wes' prodigal skills have spotlighted their family name with more eminence than any of their other relatives' reputations combined.

"He played at Marie's wedding. He's pretty good. Stein - Marie's husband - filled Wes' violin with fake blood so when he picked it up to play for their first dance, it looked like a scene from a cheap gorey horror movie."

 _Good_ , Soul thinks sourly. Any moment where Wes is less than perfect is gold for Soul.

"Did you meet him? My brother." It's a loaded question, one that will decide if he can believe Maka's genuineness.

"I was too busy chasing Marie and Stein's two year old. That little kid gets into everything! I still don't know where she found that snake… I bet she was going to put it into your brother's violin, too."

"He deserves it."

"At least it wasn't poisonous… I think."

Their food arrives and the disgusting feeling in Soul's stomach subsides. Maybe Maka isn't part of Wes' ploy. The dreaded question _what instrument did you play?_ never forms. Instead, Maka's eyes light up like a wildfire as she exclaims, "Ohh! I read the interview you did with Shaula Gorgon! Did you really roll your eyes and leave in the middle of it?"

"She was asking too many personal questions," Soul defends, remembering the reporter's cocky smirk as she asked him what it was like to be the only Evans in five generations to not be invited to play at Carnegie Hall. She'd had a field day when it came out that he hadn't written his final for his upper level composition class entirely on his own. Not that Soul had needed to see _cheater_ plastered on every headline. His parents' eyes had said it all.

Maka clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "Shaula's terrible, just like her sisters. When she interviewed me, she had the nerve to make fun of the clothes I was wearing and bring up my papa's scandal with the porn actress that has an elbow sucking fetish – I want to be a fashion designer, you know, not anyone's keeper!"

The way her chin wrinkles only makes her furious scowl less fear-provoking, and Soul stifles an entertained snicker by shoveling pickle slices into his mouth.

"They live off of humiliating others. It's better to ignore all of them," she continues, picking through her salad looking as if she's lost something before shoving it away with the back of her hand. "But I'm too bitter." Waving down the waiter, she asks for coffee with two sugars and a cookie cake. "With two scoops of vanilla ice cream, please."

"Stress eating?" Grease drips down the sides of his pinkies as he bites into his burger.

"Like you wouldn't believe." The dark splotches beneath her eyes don't lie. "And I'm not going to sleep anytime soon," she adds, shrugging. "Anyway, Shaula's older sisters are designers, too. Arachne and Medusa." Pausing to nibble on her lip, she glances down at her lap for so long that Soul thinks she's forgotten all about his presence. Even her eyelashes are the same shade of wheat as her pigtails. Creases along the edges of her eyes tell Soul that introspection is not foreign to Maka.

"I used to work for Arachne as her personal assistant. I thought it would be a great opportunity… she's very influential in fashion. But apparently she doesn't like it when coffee is spilled all over her sketches and next thing I know, she's smiling and firing me at fashion week. In front of other designers."

Soul winces. The second hand embarrassment is too real. Who knew he could be so empathetic?

"So basically... I blew it," she sighs.

"But your future shouldn't depend on this one mistake..."

"I'm just glad she didn't use my name and that it was semi-dark in there. Otherwise, my career would have ended before it started. I've known Marie since before I could remember. She's taken me under her wing."

In this way, he and Maka share many similarities.

Maka tilts the sugar dispenser upside down when her coffee arrives, narrowing her eyes. "Shaula's not even good at her job. Her articles are poorly written. Even I could write better with one arm tied behind my back and wearing a blindfold!"

The vindictive gossip in Soul revels in this shit-talking session. There is enough bottled-up hatred in his body to supply Hell with its heat source, and Maka's scythe-sharp attacks on the tabloid industry's most loathed writer only warm him up to the petite fireball.

"What about you? Why do you want to into modeling?"

Soul blows a sarcastic raspberry. "Honestly… Because of my parents, really. I've played piano all my life, and when I told them I didn't want to go to music school because I was so burnt out, they wouldn't accept it, so I went anyway and kind of, uh... dropped out. So this is next."

There is comfortable silence. Soul doesn't feel the need to add that he thinks the musically gifted gene had been muted in him, that performing had felt more like a stressful chore than an enjoyable art. Something about the way Maka takes a deep breath makes Soul believe that she has somehow understood this about him, and that this is why no vague reassurances like _you'll like playing music again soon_ or _it'll come back_ are voiced. Instead, Maka leans on her elbows and tucks her chin into her palm.

"Hopefully, you'll be much happier," she says like she really means it - like she doesn't doubt it.

Soul taps his index fingers on the table thoughtfully. "I hope so." More drumming. "Let's see your sketchbook, then."

"Prepare to be astonished," Maka grins, winking.

For the second time that day, Maka Albarn fascinates. Detailed sketches stare back at him. The colors on the tuxedos make him stare for longer than he should because he's had a lifetime of wearing them. Casual wear is what really captures his attention - Maka's designs are the epitome of chill aesthetic. It's a cross between jeans and leather jackets and patterned sweaters meets formal wear. Three pages are dedicated to scarves alone. The models are faceless and this sends cold pinpricks up and down his spine, (is this how models are seen?) but their clothes speak volumes about their mood.

"Your drawings are so shitty," Soul laughs, defaulting to saying the wrong thing to avoid feeling too much. "Is that a tie or a rag?"

Pink highlights her cheeks and she swats him away. "Don't touch, your fingers are greasy!"

"Wait, I'm kidding! You said to drop the formalities."

"Formalities, not manners!"

Soul slides her coffee mug away. "Be careful, or you'll spill coffee on your own work."

"At least I can't fire myself," she grumbles, miserable. "I'm so thankful to Marie for letting me help her out. She hired me to be a stylist, but I help her with some administrative things because she's been so busy."

There's that lower lip nibble before Maka smiles. Soul has no protests about being conditioned to this.

She continues, "My mama was a designer, too. And my papa is a model, even though he's losing endorsements and contracts left and right because of all the trouble he gets himself into." Soul feels the powerful scorn of a well-practiced eye roll even if it isn't directed at him. "I went to a boarding school for arts after she died…" She pauses, straightening, looking at him with determination that makes his forearms prickly with goosebumps. "People have a certain expectation of me, you know?"

This resonates with him. Nodding wordlessly, he pretends not to notice the quiver clipping the end of her sentence. Memories of first days of school rush into his mind like a flood, teachers' expectations skyrocketing through the stratosphere as soon as they realize that Soul looks like a miniature Wes, only not blond and brown eyed. The fall for them had never been as painful as it had been for him, who could never measure up to his family's talent.

 _Never enough._

Maka tells him that even abroad, the Albarn surname and attached fame had stuck by her like a magnet.

A designer's daughter, Maka had grown up with the knowledge that she would inherit the dynasty that is her mother's legacy. Patterns and fabrics tell stories of a young designer's one night stand with a red headed model that resulted in a prematurely born baby. Maka had been nurtured with handmade frilly dresses, plenty of eskimo kisses, and divided time between disagreeing parents who traveled too much. She had been a bridge between them and she had been the only thing that hadn't crumbled in their marriage. Tabloids had frolicked behind Maka's straying father and harassed Maka's workaholic mother but had ignored young Maka until her college years, where she had sparked a feminist movement in her campus' design program.

Maka's going to succeed and conquer the industry with an infallible smile and delicate hands, because she can, because she wants to - because of her mama, who was like a flower that succumbed to an early frost. The day of the car accident, eight year old Maka had been asking recently divorced Marie to braid her hair. As Marie had gathered each bundle in ribbons, the tires of her papa's expensive car had left skidmarks leading into the wrong turn lane, and the smoke that curled into the sky as a result of a three car collision was a representation of her mama's life and her papa's crushed spirit as he held his wife's limp hand.

Soul suspects Maka hasn't allowed herself to cry, even to this day.

Eyelids heavy, Soul chalks up his suddenly somber thoughts to sleep drunkness, his thoughts both lucid and strange. Deciding to work with Maka - the company, actually, but he wants to stay and watch Maka's glory - comes as an instinct to him. She's going to be amazing when she really gets going.

How to let her know is a whole other game.

"Okay, I'm in," Soul agrees so abruptly that Maka sets down her spoon, confusion and shock battling to paint her face. "But only if you agree to be my stylist. Partners?"

"Partners," Maka echoes, disbelief clipping each syllable. The cookie cake is set in front of her, the plate clashing with her mug like wind chimes in a gentle breeze, but Soul seems to be the only thing green eyes see. "Partners. I'd like that."

* * *

The night is crisp and clear and scantly interrupted by other pedestrians or traffic when they slide outside, prompted by impatient glares from the staff and a "now closed" sign. A glance at his phone tells Soul that this peace is the special kind of stillness only found at two in the morning. Unsure of what to say or do next, Soul shuffles his weight from foot to foot, hands buried in his jean pockets. Should he extend his hand in friendship? Is that appropriate? They're already floating in limbo because of the breach of professionalism.

Fortunately for him, she's already decided, and he's glad to follow her lead.

"I'll walk you home," Maka says, wiggling on her cardigan and working the skull-shaped buttons through slits. "After all, new models must be protected from the public, especially ones who are under my care."

Soul snickers. "And you're going to defend me against these supposed rabid fans?"

She pretends to glance around. "Where would these imagined fans be…?"

"Not hiding in a dark alley, I hope."

"Don't worry, nobody's going to hide in a dumpster just to get closer to you."

Nothing about this comment should particularly spur glee, but it does. Teasing Maka is a wild ride.

"Jealousy isn't a great color on you, Maka."

"Those skinny jeans aren't a great fit or color on you."

Soul whistles lowly. Maka is fun and witty and everything he's not. There is a certainty in her step that he wants to emulate on the runway, if he gets there. Playing pretend is his forte, unfortunately. 'Fake it until you make it' is his motto and literally how he crawled by in his music career until his reservoir of fucks to give had emptied. "Ouch. I don't like the insinuation that I am anything less than perfect," he grumbles playfully, clutching his chest.

"No one said you had to like the truth," is her swift reply.

"You're difficult." She's wonderful.

"I'm the best kind of difficult." She shrugs as though this is a nonnegotiable fact. _Take it or leave it._ Soul has to agree. They glance sideways at one another - Maka squinting bashfully to let him know she's teasing, and Soul feels every trace of shaky doubts fading. What had there been to distrust about Maka? She's gentle, yet fierce. Soul has never been one to let curiosity be a driving force behind his decisions, but his resolve to have faith in Maka's confidence is only heightened.

Their footfalls harmonize while another cool waft of air whispers by. The gap between fall and winter brings mystery, stirs the innate need in him to change, and has always been Soul's favorite moment of the year. This year the faint scent of vanilla mingles with the incoming shifting winds.

Maka slows and glances at the double doors of an inn wedged between a bookstore and a coffee shop called Rise and Grind.

"This is where I live, but I can come back after I drop you off."

Soul raises an eyebrow. "You live in a hotel?"

"I haven't found an apartment yet. I just moved here a few weeks ago."

"You can't - what? Do you even know your way around yet?"

Begrudgingly, she admits that no, she doesn't, but she has a phone and knows that GPS is a useful, evolutionary tool. Soul waves away the sarcasm, insisting that she can walk him home next time, when she learns the ins and outs of bustling and eclectic city.

"Deal, but only if you wait for me in the lobby. I want to give you something."

Wordlessly, Soul follows her through the doors. A burly man perched behind the counter nods at Maka, his coffee mug dwarfish in comparison to his oversized hands.

Nothing about the faded, timeworn furniture reminds Soul of all the overpriced hotels his family prefers, and it makes him more fond of Maka.

He tries not to breathe too deeply, not wanting his lungs to shrivel from bitterness. At least Maka is quick to return. There is a ding; she is a blur melted with vibrant colors. "Here you go. I figured I could dump one of these annoying vases that my papa keeps sending to me on you, partner," is all she says, shoving it against his chest and jumping back to disappear behind the doors before they close again.

Soul squints at the call back button – he could summon the elevator and return these flowers to Maka. He knows all the signs of pushing others away and she's definitely guilty. He picks out the card wedged between the daisies and smirks because _maka, papa loves you forever_ is neatly crossed out with a single line and replaced with a series of numbers written in red ink.

"Goodnight, Maka," he says to himself, pocketing it. The elevator hasn't lifted - he hopes she heard him through the doors somehow.


	2. waiting to be gone

"Take off your shirt," Maka says before Soul, summoned two weeks before the photoshoot, crosses the threshold toward her fabric-littered desk where she's engrossed with a sewing machine. Clothing racks and mannequins in various stages of undress witness Soul's confusion as he wheezes out an unintelligent _huh?_ instead of the relieved _hi holy shit it took me forever to find your office in this ginormous building_.

Soul can't help but grab the hem of his shirt almost defensively in response to her lacking greeting.

She glances at his white knuckles, brows arched, a curious pucker on her lips.

"So I can take your _measurements_ ," she clarifies, waving a mint green strap like a rhythm gymnast twirls a ribbon. Evenly spaced black lines and numbers stand out to him upon closer inspection of what he now knows is a measuring tape. If Maka notices the vibrant blush tinting him pink then she's a merciful angel for not teasing him, especially because it stretches clear down to his wiggling toes.

"Don't people say hi anymore?" he gripes, rubbing the back of his neck as if he can massage away the embarrassing bruise to his ego. Nothing about him is as smooth as the jazz he listens to while he showers, damn it. "I bet you want my socks off, huh."

"I mean, you can go ahead and take them off if you want. Your pants will have to go eventually, too," Maka continues nonchalantly. Snapping her fingers and clicking her tongue, she motions for him to rid himself from his shirt and Soul obliges. There's no time to think twice about the awkwardness brought on by someone poking and prodding at his body. Signing the five year contract to be the new face of Marie's line basically means surrendering his right to privacy, though as long as he can reserve the details of his humdrum life, he's game.

"Hold your arms out," Maka guides, already eyeballing the length of his arm, ordering him to stop shuffling and shushing his complaint that the metal end of the tape rivals the frigidness of an iceberg. She's too deeply enthralled with the task at hand for Soul to ask important questions - why are her hands so _cold_?

When the mortification ebbs, Soul dares study Maka while she works. Hair meticulously swept up into a ballerina-esque bun, she's the vision of calm perfection as she carefully adjusts the measuring tape by his shoulder. There's a certain charm in the effortless way her loose blouse falls over her shoulders, tucked neatly into the pleated skirt that sits snugly around her waist. It flows with her assured movements, and if Soul had never been nurtured with pressure to succeed, he wouldn't think much of the prolonged pauses after she jots down numbers.

Sighs and temple rubs are the only indicator that she's lacking hours of sleep and carrying years of stress.

Attention focused on wrapping the measuring tape around his chest, Maka says, "Stop staring."

So maybe she had noticed.

"You have a white fluffy thing in your hair," he lies, reaching out and pretending to pick the imagined culprit off the top of her head and flicking it away.

"Thanks. Okay, hold your arms out more, please."

Always the exaggerater, he is convinced his body's overreacting to Maka trespassing past the most basic barrier: clothes. Safety means shielding his sensitive heart (he always feels too much, and it's better to keep that locked up) by hiding his hands in pockets, or wearing his favorite hoodies and headbands, but Maka's blatant invasion of these protective layers doesn't bother him. Soul blames amazed intimidation - Maka outnumbers him in badassery points.

"Stop breathing so hard, I can't get a good measurement."

"I can either hold my breath or empty all the air out of my lungs. You pick." The eternal struggle against sounding sarcastic during all waking moments of his life was never meant to be won, obviously, because he can't keep his mouth _s h u t_.

"Empty," she replies evenly, laughter pinching her cheeks when he huffs out incredulous protests. "You're so easy to tease - just let me do my job!"

"I'm new at this," he defends.

"I need your measurements so the clothes for the photoshoot fit you perfectly."

"I knew that." He didn't. Soul had done very little to prepare himself for the open call, and he guiltily focuses on a polka-dotted, frilly thing draped over a rack as she moves down to his waist, tape measure grazing his skin and making him wiggle.

"Okay, lose the pants now," Maka singsongs, clicking her tongue again as if she can magic them off. "And you can breath now, ticklish liar."

"Ask and you shall receive," he laughs, undoing the button and zipper and sticking his thumbs beneath the waistband to tug them down.

"Skinny jeans again, I see. Your aesthetic is lacking," Maka shakes her head, frowning when he kicks them aside and they slide across the creme colored tiles. Lowering herself to her knees, she circles the tape around his hip bones. She moves on to his inner thigh, asking him to stand with a wider stance.

A loud cough redirects their attention toward the door, where a young woman wearing a canary yellow blouse and a shit-eating grin peers at them, brushing away magenta bangs that Soul is sure she dyes everyday to maintain its vivacious intensity.

"Maka, Marie is ready when you are," she reports, eyes sparkling when she takes in the scene: Maka kneeling in front of a scantily dressed Soul, navy blue boxers the sole barrier between them. An electrical surge and the sun turning off combined wouldn't create enough darkness to mask the red glow dusting his cheekbones at the situation's suggestiveness.

"Thanks, Kim. It'll be a few minutes," Maka nods at the abandoned sewing machine, reaching for her pen. "I'm almost done with him and then I'll send over what I have finished."

Kim winks at Soul so hard her eyelids fold and crumple. "Okay, have fun!"

But she doesn't leave. Manicured fingernaisl tap on the doorframe as she hovers over Maka's every move: holding the end of the measuring tape lightly over his hip bone, unfurling it toward the inner side of his ankle, and scolding him for shifting his weight and skewing her measurements. Soul's mechanism against embarrassment includes fidgeting while whining under his breath - it's not his fault that he blushes easily around Maka.

If anything, it's her fault.

"Are you nervous?" Maka's nose scrunches up. She wears confusion well. Very well.

"No, I'm just tired of standing." It's lame, he's lame, and he's both thankful and unreasonably exasperated at Kim doubling over in silent cackles. Give her a pointy hat, a nose mole, and a green, slimy coating of makeup and she'd look just like a witch. Maybe Soul will hand her a broom so she can shove that up her bottom and fly away, the frayed ends whipping in the wind.

"Just… try to stand still, Grumpus," Maka beseeches. Soul gathers all the hatred accumulated in his worn body into a sneer. His face is just as colored as Kim's, he imagines, because he feels feverish, more so when Maka's thumb grazes his inside of his lower leg as she moves upward.

Maka works diligently; Soul learns to relax with her in such close proximity. Her fingers are light and his skin tingles where she almost touches him. Quiet fills the small space between them, and it feels natural for them to be wordless, Soul breathing and admiring Maka's movements.

"That measurement looked off, Maka," Kim calls, voice sickly sweet with venom. "You measured higher on his left thigh than on the right."

Straightening her back as if on high alert, Maka, the innocent and unsuspecting stylist whose face falls like she's heard bad news, thanks her coworker before tucking her lip between white teeth, straining to concentrate. Soul wants to scold Kim for using Maka's perfectionistic tendencies as leverage to heighten his clumsiness around her. He has every right to be in awe of Maka - she's the definition of high tier elegance, of poise and hard work, and he is in all honesty undeserving of being paired with such devoted talent.

And, for all of Kim's corrupt endeavors to annoy him, Soul is sure they've dropped some other formality again. Standing in nothing but cotton underwear does wonders for a relationship, whether a nosy spectator is present or not.

"Okay," Maka says after a pause, capping the pen and standing upright, smiling warmly at him, cheeks dusted pink with pride.

Soul frowns. "That's it?"

"Until the photoshoot," Maka confirms, flinging his t-shirt at him, winking. "I'll help you get ready, so I'll see you before it. Here are your clothes back."

Soul exhales and burns a little more all over. He plunges on his shirt, hoping that the flesh across his stomach doesn't change colors. Maka waits for both of his hands to be busy ruffling up his hair to throw his dark wash jeans toward him, and he catches it with his face with a nice _uff_ sound effect. "Thanks," he says, stuffing a limb into a pant leg.

"Don't forget the zipper," Maka reminds, snickering. She's heading for her desk when Soul glances over, aware that he's given himself away when Kim's eyebrows shoot up faster than a skyrocket. What's done is done, so Soul looks a little bit longer (only a little bit). Faint eyebrows knit together in a way he suspects she does a lot when she's thinking. A look of focused serenity takes over and Soul knows she's gone. Soul burns it into his memory. She's nothing if not determined, something he's not sure he's ever been.

"Don't work too hard," Soul tells Maka as he leaves, "or you'll sew yourself to that rag you're making."

"It's a _skirt_ ," she pouts, nose wrinkling.

Kim, stealthy even teetering on six inch heels, blocks Soul's path in the hallway.

"I know your secret," she whispers loudly.

He is unimpressed. "But so does everyone else, thanks to Shaula Gorgon."

"She was ruthless. I can't believe she wrote over twenty tabloids about you."

"Thirty-five," he corrects.

Grin as wicked as a Cheshire cat and just as unsettling, she inches away when Maka calls her back. "Maka likes to believe the best in people, but she hates cheaters. Also, she may be clueless," she adds, pointing between her eyes and his, "but I see you, and your little crush is obvious."

"Whatever," he mumbles, scowling, pissed off that his veneration of Maka's skills are severely misconstrued (they are friends, right?). A gross, troubling feeling rumbles in his stomach when he entertains Kim's words. Is he really as creepy as she described? Deciding to roam around the hallways and check back after a few minutes to ask Maka out for dinner, he scuffles and kicks at the floor, mulling it over while Kim hopefully scurries back into Hell. After all, he owes Maka a meal, and he sort of definitely wants to see her again.

She's exciting, and her nose is cute.

He wants to see what new designs she's sketched.

Soul's hopes and dreams collapse in on themselves when he pokes his head into Maka's office exactly five minutes later and sees Kim harassing the blonde with questions.

"Does Marie really think it's a good idea to use a random person? Lots of well known models wanted the gig, it's not too late to get one of them instead-"

"Don't be so rude, Kim! I'm offended, it was my idea to sign him," Maka bristles, bunching up the free hand that isn't holding clanking hangers to point at the woman's face. "And you turned down the opportunity to scout someone out." Flinching doesn't seem to be a reflex Kim is well acquainted with - in fact, Maka's reaction heightens the daredevil smirk teasing her lips.

Kim pats Maka's head fondly, simpering look intensifying into a know-it-all leer as she rubs harder, like she's trying to scrub grease off a stove top. "It's okay, you can't be perfect all the time."

Hissing, Maka shoves Kim's hand away, patting down wayward chunks of frizzy hair. From the cutting tone of her normally cheery voice, Soul imagines she's wearing a scowl no one but Satan can rival. Not that it scares Kim, who is either brave or brainless. "Marie doesn't need a famous model to bring attention to her clothes. She's already really successful, and it's better to have a fresh face in the industry."

"If you say so," Kim gives in, shrugging. "A tall, hipster-ish loner guy ... He's so cute, with his white hair and all, but he isn't your usual type. You love taking care of the lost, don't you, Maka?"

Huffing indignantly, Maka piles the clothes on the counter and combs her fingers through the disheveled mess Kim left, grunting frustratedly between reprimands.

"I did research on him," Kim begins, and Soul's chest shrivels as he recognizes the glow that enliven people's faces when they talk about the scandal. Everyone loves to see him suffer, of course, so why not bring up the exact moment when he fucked up beyond all belief?

"Don't," Maka warns, edging toward the door. Soul ducks around the corner. "If he wants to talk about something, he will tell me."

* * *

Hours of internet research later, cupcakes, and a harsh slap in the face by reality, Soul is on the cusp of his seventh nervous breakdown.

"You fit none of these descriptors of models," Jackie marvels, eyes magnetized to her laptop screen. Nestled on the armchair that she had punted Soul off of after barreling through the door without preamble, demanding to use their wifi, all of her free time has been dedicated to calculating Soul's potential success. "It says here that models are ambitious, hard-working, intelligent-"

"I have some of those qualities, sometimes," Soul protests, flicking sprinkles off his chin. "Or I did, at some point or another."

"'Models have good self esteem and are in shape. It's necessary to be organized, sociable, and friendly'," she finishes reading, rolling her eyes. "Yeah, it sounds just like you, Soul."

"I'll pretend. Like I'm doing it right now."

Soul's interactions are limited to his roommate Kilik Rung, his childhood best friend Jacqueline O. Lantern-Dupre, and Black*Star. The reason the latter isn't adding his input about the irony of Soul, the Bitter Uninterested Hermit, modeling for a high fashion label is because he's house ridden with a sprained ankle, his coach probably sitting on him to prevent another accident.

Their friendship consists of eating and bantering, so Soul hadn't expected to receive much comfort, but her lack of faith in his capabilities doesn't sit well. It's like receiving a deflating raft when he begged to be pulled onto the ship.

Kilik, the most decent member of their misfits squad, tries to undo the damage done by Jackie's words. "The photoshoot is going to be just fine," he insists, setting more cupcakes down on the coffee table.

"Spawn of rich people like me and Soul either thrive or sink," Jackie tells Kilik. "It's evolution."

"I don't think that's how that works…"

"There are special snowflakes like Wes, who are excellent at everything and are treated like trophy children, and then there are people like me and Soul."

Appetite for comfort food smothered, Soul melts into the couch, determined to decay out of existence while being soothed by his blankets.

At least the downward spiral after he had been caught cheating hasn't taken too long. One of the plus sides of squatting low on the totem pole was that the fall from grace was more of a flop than a crash. Expulsion from Juillard had been a swift guillotine drop to his passionless music career, precise as a surgeon's incision and as fatal as a jugular rupture.

But even in death, the aftermath stings.

"It's not my fault the professor recognized the song," he grumbles, swallowing the regret attached to the memory of slapping his name on a piece that some obscure, now deceased pianist composed. Lack of sleep, an unhinging panic attack, and feelings of hopeless inadequacy had cracked a vital reasoning component in his mind. In that moment, Soul had seen no other way out. "And then that stupid trash reporter Shaula caught wind of it, _ughhh_. That lady is obsessed with making people miserable. She helped ruin my life."

"You should have asked Wes to write your song for you," Jackie points out, plucking the most frosted cupcake and peeling off the wrapper. "He would've done it, no questions asked."

"He's always busy, and I didn't want to bother him."

"You know he would have dropped everything to help you cheat."

"I _know_."

"Grouch," Jackie sighs, back to scrolling through whatever webpage she's using to cite the reasons why he's unfit to enter the modeling industry. Soul should have foreseen this setback - there had never been anything that was his own. If Wes hadn't won the award before him, someone else in their musical family had, so Soul had settled comfortably into the slacker lifestyle. At least there he could be the king of his domain, the solitary occupant, and being alone was fine, just fine. The few solid friendships he formed were accidental but one of his few lifelines. This is one of the results: an ongoing argument with pretentious and negative Jackie.

So, of course, they get along fantastically. Together they co-ruminate, snarl at strangers, and share in the disgrace that is fulfilling the role of the black sheep in their respective high powered, well connected families.

"Speaking of Wes, have you talked to him yet?" Kilik asks, back in the kitchen and scrubbing his precious cookware.

Soul hangs his head to hide his shame for delaying apologies. "I'm sure he's busy."

Kilik's reply is the ding of a spoon colliding with a pan. As an older brother to twins, he probably understands Wes' side more than his, so Soul is wary of voicing any grievances against his sibling, since the professional chef probably agrees. Their minds process the word 'help' similarly. A text to Kilik asking for a place to crash overnight had escalated into Soul making the couch his semi-permanent new home, which is exactly what Wes had offered him after hearing about the clash with their parents when they'd sat him down to rub salt in his wounds.

How could he have stolen a song?

What had he been thinking?

Soul didn't think he had ever thought much at all in his twenty-two years on this ridiculous Earth - someone always told him what to do, and thus he couldn't be blamed for the tremendous fuck up.

"Anyway," Jackie says, turning to him again, "this is so out of character for you. Soul Evans, award winning recluse with at least a thousand different excuses why he can't go outside and be around people, is going to take glam pictures to help some lady sell her overpriced suits."

Soul can't explain why he feels so defensive for a woman he barely knows, but Marie had smiled kindly when Maka had lead him into her office, welcoming him as if she'd known him for years. Even with an eyepatch masking half of her face, her eyes radiated warmth.

"You just love to see people suffer," Soul rolls his eyes.

"It's my life's purpose," Jackie yawns noisily, stretching. "Can we go to your photoshoot?"

"Fuck _no."_

"Fine. It'll be your funeral." She pauses, typing away. "Maybe Shaula Gorgon will be at your photoshoot and she can give us the play-by-play of what happens?"

Absolutely seething that everything has to be a damn _joke_ , Soul burrows himself into the couch, throwing on his blanket. "I'm going to sleep," he declares, cupping his hands over his ears to prevent the sound of Jackie's cackles jackhammering into his brain.

"Nevermind, I'm going to sit on the porch," he declares when Jackie snorts in response to Kilik wondering if Soul's parents know about his new job, rolling off and stomping away.

"Brat," he hears Jackie mutter darkly as he slides the door shut. Beneath his fuming, he knows she's right, and it sets every nerve into an irritable jumble.

Life had been just fine since the Juilliard fiasco. Sometimes Soul didn't even keep his eyes open for more than a few hours. Years of exhaustion fermenting in his bones finally made him ache all over - there had been moments where he doubted the stability of his legs and hoped he'd disintegrate, much like his reputation. Solace hasn't found him yet. As much as he shares the excitement when his friends succeed, the same excitement avoids him.

Resentment had clutched at him for months after Kilik had scaled up so effortlessly to grab the position of head chef at a five star restaurant with remarkable finesse. Young and successful and the antithesis of the disappointing slacker that Soul has proven himself to be, Kilik Rung is a prodigy where delectable food is concerned.

While Soul's life had been split apart at the seams, Kilik had been blessed with good fortune.

Black*Star, who spent the majority of his teenage years floating between foster homes until he found an understanding parent who didn't mind bailing him out of juvie, eventually matured and ceased showing off his lengthy criminal record that documented his affinity for tagging buildings. Everyone was surprised that he had committed to an organized sport; taking a glove to the face and losing surprisingly did not provoke hysterics. Soul has yet to accept an invitation to one of his fights.

True to her introverted nature, Jackie had turned to the internet, and her satirical How To blog attracted a following greater than most xxx porn blogs. "I don't know shit about anything," she had kept repeating, reading adoring fanmail after fanmail, thoroughly floored at why people liked being lied to. Soon after demonstrating _How to Break Into Your Neighbor's Apartment Because You Think They Stole Your Amazon Package And You Need Some FKN Answers: parts 1, 2, and 3 (eating their food)_ , the checks from Rumblr, the vblogging website, had saved her from relying on her trust fund. She's not completely broke, unlike Soul.

Soul is due for an ascent, but in retrospect he can't decide if he's climbing ladder rungs or digging a deeper grave.

For now, life is fine… just fine.

* * *

With a grunt, the rubber capping of a crutch pokes through the doorway, followed by sweatpants clad legs, a long torso, muscled shoulders, and a cloud of kool-aid blue hair that can only be likened to cotton candy. Standing at five foot six, semi-professional boxer Black*Star gives no shits about wearing a chicken grease stained shirt in public.

Soul groans and prepares himself for a migraine.

"I'M HERE! Jackie texted me that you needed my presence, and I wasn't going to come but then she sent me a picture of the cupcakes Kilik made. What're you hiding from out here anyway?" Black*Star asks as he plops onto the chair beside him, obnoxiously colorful sneakers slamming onto the glass table. This is the closest he'll edge to asking _what's wrong_ and Soul is a little touched, a little irritated, and a little afraid. The last time this was uttered, it earned Soul a trip to the emergency room with a broken wrist and a concussion.

"I'm tired. It's been a long day... Kilik made me go to the gym with him."

"You look like you've been dragged through Satan's barn. Even your hair looks shitty."

Soul closes his eyes, conflicted between allowing an amused snigger or pushing him away with a disgruntled _fuck off_. Ambiguity is always the answer. "Thanks."

"Usually when you look like shit you feel like it, Evans. What's going on in that broody head of yours?"

This must be a parallel universe in which Soul is successful, Black*Star is perceptive, and Jackie is attempting to motivate him, in her own messed up way. There's probably some weird ingredient in the cupcakes thanks to having assholeish friends and Kilik looking away for five seconds while he baked.

"I don't know how this is gonna turn out." Speaking hurts more than Soul expected, like finding a bruise he as no memory of ever forming. He's at a fork in the road, and he isn't sure if he's stuck reading the signs, venturing down a road, or if he's veered off into a forest wandering into a bear's den. "What if I can't take a good picture? My mouth was always hanging open in every family Christmas card. They always had to photoshop the glare from my chin drool."

"The photographers can Photoshop that at this photoshoot too, you know."

"And I've never done this before."

"They want your body."

"I think I got the job because Wes knows the lady who owns the company."

"Wes knows everyone. Use it to your advantage. Think of it as him being sociable for you."

"I didn't even know who owned the company... I just went and hoped for the best."

"Soul, shut _up_. Stop overthinking. You're gonna be just fine. All you have to do is pretend to give a shit. And you're the best at that."

Shock forces him to open his eyes again. The night is even darker now and challenge is spelled out on Black*Star's face. Part of Soul wants to agree and end the conversation before he spurts out insecurities of failing Maka and her dreams. So he settles for a non-committing, "Yeah?"

"Yeah, bro," he guarantees, balancing on the back legs of his chair, hands behind his head. "Don't fuck up."

Soul smirks. Motivational speaking would be a great second career for BlackStar. "I can't promise that."

Wes always has said that Soul is too stubborn, too distant, and too indecisive to chase after whatever it is that he really wants; surprisingly, Black*Star seconds this every time. Soul always responds with a death glare so strong it physically exhausts him, demanding that Black*Star stop siding with Wes. But as one of his best friends, Black*Star had once elaborated on Wes' observation, pointing out that Soul himself has not been enlightened to the reason why he isn't a pianist prodigy:

Lack of passion is fatal.

Then Soul had cut off communication for three weeks until the latter recanted his words, apologizing, "I meant to say 'you don't suck at music _that_ much.'"

After conversations like these, Black*Star always slaps a hand on Soul's back, promising to knock the idiot out of him.

Despite Black*Star's relentless need to infuriate Soul, the two have been best friends for as long as Soul's memory can stretch, but he can't remember the fateful, awful day they met. Black*Star insists that Soul had smacked him in the face in the first grade because he spilled water on his painting of a mango. Soul dismisses this memory when it comes up because he would have cherished such a triumphant moment. There's no proof or recollection of any mango, to which Black*Star points out that he has repressed the mango incident because of its catastrophic nature, and that after Black*Star had further soiled the piece by finger painting a smiley face on the fruit, Soul had trashed it in wretchedness.

Amusing mango story or not, Soul trusts few wholeheartedly, save for Wes, albeit begrudgingly. Sometimes he watches Kilik and Black*Star and Jackie (who claims that they met at a fancy daycare that Soul can't remember attending) when they're all together, and realizes that he needs to meet someone outside of their clique.

* * *

Clammy and sweaty all at once, Soul is convinced his heart has climbed into his throat and stopped beating. A lump clots all passages, and this must be why no air is filling his lungs despite hyperventilating heavily. This is far worse than any recital he has ever performed - instead of critical eyes drinking his every mistake and his devoted brother beaming from the front row, a nonplussed Kim hovers behind an even more disillusioned photographer, a thick silence engulfs the crew, and his brother is nowhere near the building.

Kim's whisper hangs in the room's stillness. "Is he okay?"

He's not sure.

Life had been just fine for Soul Evans, if he didn't expect too much. A legacy had been thrust at him like a sword and he'd had no idea how to defend himself, so he had avoided its sharp blade by receding into the safe zones of being… just average. Shirking practice had revealed that sight reading resulted in better performances and more compliments from directors, and thus the cycle of dread and procrastination where music was concerned spurred on.

Soul knew it would backfire eventually, but he shrugged off this thought, too, always backflipping away from anything that would require effort.

The more his parents encouraged private lessons, the more Soul underachieved. Video games and endless internet surfing provided plenty of escapes from key changes, recitals, and claustrophobia inducing bow ties. Vomit climbed up his esophagus every time the stage lights shone too intensely on him. He's a contradiction in many ways: above average but not great, capable but not enough. Somehow he managed to bullshit his way through tryouts, barely making the cut for state wide symphonies, and to even it out, he was never the best pianist in any of them.

If Soul's math is correct, this follows the equation down to a T.

"Try to breathe," the photographer directs. "Look more natural."

Even his panic attacks don't seem real enough. He opens and closes his palms at his sides, opens, closes, opens, closes, opens, closes, and he can't even swab away the sweat clustering at his hairline with his sleeve because the suit isn't his, and why are the camera lights so _fucking_ bright and scorching,and _why_ can he never do anything right? The suspicion that he's irreparably damaged rings true right now as his mouth clamps shut to subdue whimpers, and he shuts down while a torrent of ugly emotions beat him into submission.

Disappointment weighs a lot. His shoulders round out, his spine concaves, and he feels too heavy to stand upright but is too stubborn to fall. He's a statue, destined to perpetually endure a muted assault of feelings. This time there isn't a piano to hide behind, no ivory keys to piece together rhyme and reason. It's him, just him: cavernous isolation.

When Maka appears, identical pigtails swaying in sync with her confident strides, Soul's heart constricts. Admiration surges through his bones, laced with regret at his inability to match her wonderfulness. Their partnership is bound for failure, but Soul is grateful that she at least shared her dreams and spark with him.

He can't look away as Maka marches onto the set, clicks of her footsteps urgent; her touch is a feather-touch, slowly waking him up, and when he's used to his pulse beating against her index finger she tightens her grip. His bones ache wonderfully at the sudden pressure of being held. Legs numb, he stumbles as she leads him offstage, but she's sure-footed enough for the both of them.

"That's it!" the livened photographer exclaims, flashes preceding the successive sounds of shutters. Festive "We've got the shots!" reach Soul's ears as Maka navigates them out of the room. It's like stepping inside of himself, because the hallway is barren and still and dimly lit, while on the other side of the wall, cheers and applause that Soul doesn't understand or thinks he deserves persist.

Maka stands in front of him. "Are you okay? You look so pale." Worry paints her features, and something else Soul can't name. Pity? Disappointment? Doubt?

"This is how I normally look," Soul jokes, but fails to pack the anxious feelings away in the boxes he's stockpiled over years. Constant overfilling have frayed the edges of the flaps and they don't stay sealed like they used to - the slightest prod topples the container over, unprocessed emotions stinging. "I don't think I can do this."

Maka clutches both his arms, squeezing, nails plunging into the fabric of the suit and anchoring him. "When we were at the diner when we first met, you said you were going to try your best - is this it, is this your best?"

"No," he whispers, fully expecting Maka's grip to loosen, for her hands to drop back to her sides, their intensity gone for good.

"Tell me," she demands. At least a foot shorter than him, she balances on her toes and pulls him down by the shoulders to meet eye to eye - it's ridiculous that Soul focuses on a few freckles that sprinkle the bridge of her nose when she's three seconds away from shaking him back to his senses. "Tell me what's holding you back, and I'll help you get free."

"It's hard to say." Comparisons to his brother - to every damn member in his family tree, really, have reduced him to an indecisive idiot with an inferiority complex. He's a collage of flaws, pasted together haphazardly. "I'm never enough."

"Are you sure? Has anyone ever said that to you and meant it?"

"No," Soul realizes.

Maka nods once, powerful and doubtless. "Go all the way with your potential for once. Don't back off. You're writing yourself off before you even really try. Soul, you told me yourself - this is what's next after music. You're not going back to playing the piano. That's it, you're done. And you're okay. And now you're moving on with your life, and you're okay."

"All I do is pretend..."

"Feel, Soul. It's okay to feel things."

Time to unpack. To throw away the boxes.

Soul's instincts scream for him to plunge his hands into the pockets of the grey pinstriped slacks, but instead of hiding his empty hands, he rests them over Maka's. "I won't fuck up."

Maka leans closer, so close that he can count more freckles and gilded eyelashes, that he feels heat that only another warm body can produce, that he sees nothing but green, green, green. "I promise you, Soul Evans, that I will help you feel something."


	3. you're making me nervous

The next thing that happens is – nothing.

What shocks Soul the most about his new career is the copious amount of built-in downtime.

At any other stage in his life, he would have gladly vanished under his blankets with an assortment of sweets in the form of chocolate and gummies, sipping a few healthy sips of water before falling out of bed to pacify his need for a sundae, but disappointment scratches at him. Even his to-watch list, which rivals the length of Santa's naughty list, doesn't inspire interest in him this time. The hope of feeling useful loses its promise the more daylight escapes him. Ears still burning from his fuck up at the photoshoot, he worries about Marie backtracking on her decision to sign him.

It doesn't helped that the feel of Maka's grip on his shoulders has burned itself into his skin.

"Are you sure you don't want to see the photos?" she had asked when they walked back onto the set, entranced by what the camera had captured.

"Yeah, I'll just wait for the editorial to come out," he had mumbled, head down, turning on his heel. Unsure how to feel about the crease between her brows softening the longer she studied the photo (him him him!), he'd enlisted his usual coping mechanisms of pushing feelings away, but Maka and her strength have been sneaking up on him.

Little details about the way her voice reverberated haunt him while he stares at the dark television screen and tries to find his outline in its distorted image of reality; Soul thinks Maka broke him. Something about clutching him tightly had switched on a receptor in his brain that finally flooded him with feels: raw, foul, cutting emotions attached to beliefs of inadequacy. He had broken at the slightest touch of a stranger. Maybe he should thank her for the kind words, but he's a fragile person who feels too much and possesses a limited vocabulary.

In the days following the photoshoot, gravity intensifies, because disentangling his limbs and propping himself up on an elbow are physically impossible.

Nothing's changed, except now, not even rejection jitters fill him to the brim. He's traded in his nervous twitch for blindingly present disinterest.

He's on display.

Kilik, the perceptive mother hen that he is, draws the drapes and opens the blinds that cover the sliding glass doors every morning before his shift at the restaurant. Sometime between eight and eight thirty, Jackie materializes, laptop tucked between her elbow and side. Conversations are mostly one sided because Soul's disassociation is worse after a night of staring into darkness; she talks to fill his time and the empty spaces where some sort of lucidity still exists. Still on crutches, Black*Star hobbles over keep him company, a bucket of chicken in tow.

Phone entangled somewhere in his comforters, it glows in the dark sometimes, to let Soul know that he's not forgotten to other people. Setting it to silent must have been one of the greatest mistakes he's ever made (aside from stealing a dead person's music) because he's convinced he'll never be able to reach out for help if his friends aren't there.

He is sure a very important part of himself dies while he lays on the couch, overwhelmed and anxious, half-awake, half-aware, half-alive... just _a half_. It's like life is on pause. He sleeps, he doesn't; he comes back as slowly as it takes to pause and take a long breath.

Maka's words, commonplace but strung together so as to convey the inconceivable, help ease him awake.

They cycle on repeat:

" _Go all the way with your potential for once. Don't back off… You're not going back to playing the piano. That's it, you're done. And you're okay."_

And he keeps thinking that she believes he'll survive, that she has a sureness about her, like she never puts the wrong foot down. It's both magnetizing and empowering.

Coupled with Black*Star's mantra of _don't fuck up_ , Kilik's silent support, and Jackie's fierce loyalty, Soul dares to believe he can recover. Even Wes's helicopter-mother style of being there for him proves that no one's given up on him yet. He picks himself off the couch and decides to try living again, because his bones ache like they've been buried in snow, and he wants it to stop.

Clarity encourages him to stand up, fold his blankets, declutter, and toss toss toss things away, to engage by disengaging negative thoughts.

Unpacking.

He's relishing the excellent water pressure, scrubbing away the grimy feeling of rotting away, when Jackie apparently decides to show herself inside the apartment.

"Get up, get up, get up!" he hears her too-cheery voice chant. The slam of the front door shakes the tiled walls and his already jittery, beaten heart. It's just like a scene from a scary movie, right before the monster attacks. He chuckles at himself.

"Are you okay in there?" She sounds closer. Beneath her righteous Hard Ass exterior, her _I'm right you're wrong mentality_ serves as a main driving force, and Soul wouldn't put it past her to use her master picklock abilities to scold him for not answering fast enough.

"Yeah, just hold on-" Soul shoves the shower curtains away and grapples for the unlocked doorknob, fist clenching together the ends of a towel he throws around his waist. His foot slides on the puddle formed by the droplets of water splashing from the still-running shower head, his face almost clashing against the edge of porcelain sink with his temple, but he tilts it just the right way, and his elbow takes the impact. Only a death certificate and six feet of dirt would have consoled him if Jackie had marched into the confined space, demanding their new Wi-Fi password, blinking at his naked body sprawled on the soapy floor.

At least this way, he had held on to his towel.

She's on the other side of the door. "Did you have an accident?"

Soul, still reeling from the fall, chokes out, "Yeah. Don't come in though."

Jackie barks out a laugh. "Don't worry, I'm not going to barge in and make sure it's you, I'm convinced now. I'm just surprised you're awake." Reason number 564 why he and Jackie's friendship label _Bitter Besties_ couldn't be more accurate: sarcasm laces every word they utter, whether it's deliberate or not.

In this case, Soul hopes she's not being condescending.

"That's so good - I know! As a treat, I'll take you to breakfast. Hurry up though, because I want to leave A.S.A.P. I'm so hungry." As if on cue, there's the quieter sigh of the refrigerator opening, a low hum underlying the glass jars bumping against one another. "We'll take BlackStar, too, and we can trick him into paying for us. I've been wanting to see if that cute waitress is still there, so this works out."

Rinsed and cleanly shaven, Soul blinks at his reflection. Hair as white as paint, one lone dimple on his right cheek; he's still here, but he's not waiting to be gone anymore. At the touch of a stranger, he'd been recalibrated.

Time to go.

Shrugging on a hoodie and stumbling into his shoes on the way to the door, Soul tells Jackie that her self-cut bangs are horrid and uneven, and she responds not with a comeback but with a beam.

"Welcome back. Where did you go?"

"Away."

* * *

Soul runs into her on the street.

Rubbing his temples, he is too preoccupied reliving yet another excruciating eardrum rattling BlackStar tantrum, which resulted in the trio of waffle goers getting kicked out of the most run down waffle house in their neighborhood. Fueled by extreme passion for strawberry syrup, attempts to hold the amateur boxer down had proven to be difficult and glass shattering, even with his newly diagnosed broken ankle. A thick skull had saved his brain from injury when he dove over three tables to nab a bottle, cracking a window, but the manager on duty hadn't been as pleased and tossed them out on their asses, breakfastless. BlackStar's YAHOOS! had morphed into BOOHOOS! while Jackie had mourned never being able to see her favorite waitress ever again.

Needing to remove himself from the situation, Soul barreled down the street, on the wrong side of pedestrian traffic, shoulder bumping into others, including a coffee carrying Maka Albarn.

Papers fly around them, punctuated with the _thunk_ of a familiar looking sketchpad dropping to the pavement.

"Soul!" she cries happily, gifting him a wide smile that exists for four seconds and lights up her face, even as her chin crumples and she scowls and swats his arm with the back of a gloved hand. "You haven't been replying to my text messages!"

It stings. Soul winces, dropping to his knees to gather the loose pages of her sketchbook. Their fingers overlap. "I haven't gotten them."

"Liar," she accuses easily, sighing. "Either way, I'm glad to see you. Where are you going in such a hurry?"

Thank fucking heavens that Maka hadn't toppled over; coffee still in hand, she seems okay. Except for a red nose that can be blamed on the icy wind, she is the same as he remembers her from two weeks ago (not that he's counting): bright eyed, lively, and radiant. "I'm not really going anywhere. Home, I guess," he shrugs.

"Ah, just like the first time we talked," Maka smiles. "So, how are we going to spend our day?"

"Uhm, uh… what?"

"Hey, I have an idea," Maka says, stepping forward and hooking her arm around his. "Come shopping with me."

Visions of being dragged like an unexcited child through aisles upon aisles of clothing racks flash through his mind. Tapping his foot impatiently while she takes half an hour to decide which shade of red for whatever isn't his ideal way to spend the day, but hanging out with Maka is, strangely.

Too easily, Soul relents. "I need breakfast, first."

* * *

The happiest place in the world, to Maka, is Hobby Lobby. In addition to designing clothes, one of her aspirations as a child had been to be an interior designer. Soul knows he's in it for the long run when Maka grabs a shopping cart and plays it safe by shoving it at him and snatching another one for herself.

"In case we need more space for more things," she tells him, steering them towards the fabric section.

Maka's excitement is on par with that of a little girl let loose in a toy store. True to her thorough nature, Maka ensures that they scan every display in their sight, plus retraces their steps to look at things twice, and touches anything she thinks is exceptionally pretty. Soul's need to assert his coolness flares up after he gets too excited to see a fifty percent off sign in the poster aisle, where they lose thirty minutes. Finally tossing four abstract art pieces into his cart, he catches Maka's vigilant stare, and she's so calm and serene that he can't help but wonder what she sees when she looks at him.

The sudden rush of exhilaration drains him (he felt too much too fast), and he remains respectfully interested in the sequins that Maka shows him.

They're doodling in the pen aisle, Soul snorting at Maka's rendition of a stick figure, when his phone interrupts them.

"Aren't you going to answer? I know it's Wes, you gave him that annoying quacking ringtone when he tried calling you that first day we had dinner."

Soul re-pockets his now silent phone. "Nah, I'll talk to him later."

"Maka!" A man wearing a monkey t-shirt underneath a vest dashes toward her excitedly as she opens her mouth. Maka seems to want to pull her head inside her shirt and disappear, like a turtle trying to hide from oncoming traffic.

"Hi, Tezca," she says politely, not bothering to mask her dread.

The man doesn't seem to notice. "I thought I recognized you! You're still so short, aww."

Scuffling his shoes, Soul stands there clumsily, inaudibly cheering on a disgruntled Maka while she evades questions and not so subtly says she needs to leave, _right now_ , _I have to go, okay BYE_! She picks an opening to signal for Soul to haul ass and he smirks as she throws a peace sign to the man, who's still chattering by himself.

"He's my dad's friend," Maka explains to Soul once they're two aisles down, wandering amidst inspirational wall décor. The apprehension in her voice worries Soul, who smothers down a stream of questions. She groans, rubbing her temples. "I hope he doesn't tell my papa that he saw me here. I swear, he would grow wings and fly down here to swoop me back home."

Curiosity wins. "Is that why you live in a hotel room?"

"Yeah. Marie's ex-husband Joe owns the inn, and since he's basically like my family to me, he let me rent out a room for cheap. I don't have a lot of money saved up, but there's no way I'm going back to live with my papa. I tried getting an apartment, but I needed a cosigner."

"I know how that goes. I'm bunking with my friend Kilik for now."

Maka nods solemnly. "We had a lot in common, not all of them very happy things..." When she perks up, so does he. "That reminds me that I have a lot more flowers to give you."

* * *

"Holy _shit_ , this place looks like a greenhouse."

" _I know_ ," she wails, pulling a pained expression. "And I don't want them to die so it just takes a long time to water them, and I forget what I watered so some end up dying."

She wrings her hands while Soul sidesteps an abnormally huge flower that is the height of a small child, its fuchsia pink petals clashing horrendously with the maroon petals of another flower leaning in the corner. "At least these are plastic," he notes to no one in particular. Offering to help carry Maka's bags to her hotel room had been partially due to feeling shame for imagining Maka heaving three reusable bags, a terra cotta plant holder, and a lamp through the hallways by herself. The rest of his motivation had been Maka's grin when he said he'd have to see for himself if her tales of garden heaven were real.

And they are, unfortunately.

Both nightstands on either side of the bed are cluttered with plastic pots varying in size and color of foliage. One or two would have been acceptable and even lightened up the décor a little, but apparently Maka's papa has grown fond of calling the flower shop, because almost every surface has been occupied by some sort of greenery. They've conquered the room, starting at the corners and approaching the middle. Only a few paths are clear, all leading to her bed from either the front door or the bathroom.

Soul shakes his head, voicing his diagnosis. "He's not even here, but I think your dad has boundary issues."

"See why I don't want to move back in with him? He'd be unbearable."

Soul rubs his eyes, to make sure no dust is prompting some sort of green optical hallucination. Nope, this jungle is a bizarre reality. "Ahh… well, it's sort of freaky and messed up, but he must care about you a lot."

"I know that!" she snaps, but her lips twist in agony and there's no mistaking the grief dwelling underneath several thick layers of resentment. From what she had shared at the diner, she'd started sewing her own babydolls' onesies under her mama's supervision at the tender age of three, and to this day she still gifts her papa handmade ties for his birthday, despite the numerous grudges she's holding against his cheating ass. It makes sense that a lifetime of practice has made Maka a quick seamstress, as well a master at removing herself from reach, guarding her emotions.

Soul doesn't think it's healthy to house so much hurt; perhaps bones are containers for sorrow, and the more they burn the stronger they become, like a ceramic vase in a kiln, but there has to be a limit to storing melancholy.

The stack of memos signed _I LOVE YOU FOREVER, MAKA_ makes Soul think she's been mulling this over, too. She's at a crossroads between continuing to push him away, or accepting his affection, as flawed as her father is.

"I mean, I love plants, and flowers, but this…" Maka picks up a pot overflowing with long vines. "This… is too much."

As an outsider, the solution to their difficult, super strained father-daughter relationship clearly calls for open communication, crying, a six hour hug every day for many years to come, and therapy. The fact that Maka has yet to heave the flowers into the dumpster says everything.

But distance is hard to come back from.

"Send your dad something in return," he offers casually. "Better yet, give him a call. It doesn't mean you have to forgive him, but he probably wants to hear from you."

"Yeah, okay," she agrees easily, shoulders rising as she releases a sigh and looks like she's heard something she's been needing to hear.

She plucks away a dead leaf.

* * *

At the diner that night, Maka doesn't pretend to eat salads and Soul doesn't deny himself two milkshakes. His cheeks ache from smiling too much; Maka's laugh is carefree and vibrant. He's caught in another cycle, this one consisting of being fascinated with the way she talks. It's almost ridiculous how easily they fall into sync. Soul has never confided in anyone about how he feels about Wes Evans, the older brother, not the composer, but he finds he needs to say very little for Maka to understand.

"When I was in second grade, a kid made fun of my teeth, so my brother learned to play the cello to steal his older brother's solo," Soul reminisces, distantly sad; surely he's too far gone to salvage their relationship.

"That's sweet, in a… weird way," Maka coos, squirting a fist-sized pile of ketchup on her fries.

"Yeah, he's always been like that. He always took me trick-or-treating, even when I was eight and he was eighteen and could do whatever he wanted."

"Sounds like you miss him."

"He's not too bad, I guess," Soul concedes. A guilty voice reminds him that Wes' recent absence isn't solely to blame on the latter's move to Los Angeles. Jealousy had provoked Soul to ignore his brother, even when he texted everyday and sent care packages twice a month. If Wes hadn't arrived out of the blue to chaperon Soul to the Mjolnir Strikes open call, he would have never met Maka.

Thanks, Wes.

"I wish I had siblings, but knowing my dad, I probably already have some," Maka says, so nonchalant that strawberry milkshake gushes into his windpipe. Coughing, he sticks his face in the crook of his elbow and accepts the napkins Maka offers.

"My papa always took me, too. One year, I wanted to be Little Red Riding Hood, so he dressed up as the wolf." A delicate, contemplative look softens her face, like she has been trying to remember something that never happened. "I don't think the three of us ever went trick-or-treating as a family."

They eat together, but voyage separately into their own thoughts.

* * *

Soul's not sure how it escalates from colliding on the street to spending most of his waking time shadowing Maka, but it does, and he has zero complaints.

In three short weeks, they've met up every evening, and occupied the gaps in between with a string of emoji littered texts. The waiter at the shitty diner learns to expect Maka when he sees Soul, and also remembers her order. Surprisingly, Soul's successfully avoided introducing Maka to his friends, who all still check in on him via Skype (Jackie) and unexpected visits at four in the morning (Black fucking Star) and post it notes reminding him to drink water (Kilik). Soul's not ashamed of them, but he wants to keep Maka a secret, at least for the moment. He looks forward to hearing about her day and flipping through her sketchbook, distantly high off her passion for life.

At first she asks him to meet her at the bookstore, where they scour the shelves for some obscure eighteenth century novel, and it escalates to picking her up at the bus stop where they first met, to arguing over scrambled eggs at six-thirty in the morning. Soul offers to be her mannequin, and in return, she sews him a headband, because he complains that his ears are always cold. They bask in their mutual hatred of Shaula Gorgon, and Soul is glad to have found someone who can relate to being the target of a malicious tabloid writer. Weekends are dedicated to craft store adventures, listening to his favorite songs that Maka tries her hardest to understand, and introducing her to a few jazz clubs.

Maka looks ethereal in the dim, low lights.

Still, there are times when not even the promise of hearing Maka laugh emboldens him to leave the couch. The tumble from _I'm actually happy_ to _I feel so shitty what the fuck is wrong with me_ is unfair, unanticipated, and frustratingly cruel. As much as his mind lags, his heart races terribly; he's trapped within himself, barely breathing, stuck, while chaos pecks away at his brain.

Picking himself up becomes a little easier, at least.

* * *

"Okay," Maka says without preamble, shoving her laptop at him. There has been nothing between them for hours but the sound of the furnace turning on and off. They're huddled on the carpeted floor of her hotel room, knees brushing against each other as they settle in to marathon another original Netflix series. "Have I told you how much I hate Shaula?"

Sarcasm is always the answer. "No?"

"Well, I absolutely despite her guts," she declares. "Read that." Skimming the headline of the article pulled up on the screen, the name 'Spirit Albarn' stands out immediately, and he steels himself against the second-hand embarrassment that is sure to hit. Maka's papa's talents include partying, gambling, smoking too much, and holding the world record for chasing ass. He's a trainwreck, and his modeling career has suffered for it.

Of course he's a great topic for a tabloid magazine.

The man is so shameless and happy-go-lucky, it almost makes Soul laugh in an ugly way. As Maka recounts more episodes of his cheating, he feels repulsed. Poor five-year-old Maka, who followed her papa into a brothel and cried because he kissed five people who were not her mama. Poor thirteen-year-old Maka, who felt she needed to run away to a boarding school outside of the country for the sake of her sanity.

Soul suspects there is more to the story – she cuts off every time she tells it, fidgeting, but he doesn't press her. He hasn't fully disclosed everything, either.

"I will be the first to admit that my papa isn't the best person," she allows, visibly pained. "But does Shaula really have to go out of her way to make him look like a total pig?"

"Talking shit is an impulse for her. She loves making people look bad. What else can you expect?"

"I just don't understand why some people are so messed up – oh, you never told me why exactly you have a grudge against her?"

The fact that she has yet to type his name into a search engine and find out for herself reinforces the belief that she's trustworthy. Exhuming all of the disparaging things Shaula had to say about him isn't a challenging task. She had ridiculed everything from his uncanny pointy teeth to his lack of prodigal talent. Sometimes Soul pretends that the scandal wouldn't have been so bad if she hadn't caught wind of it and added fuel to the fire by never letting anyone forget what he did. But he doubts that any serious musician reads her shitty tabloids.

Still, though. Believing this numbs the sting of being shunned by the performing arts community.

"Uh," he answers. He can be so eloquent. "She wrote a few things about my family, trying to make them look bad."

It's not a lie. Even Wes, who has had numerous songs top the billboard charts, has been the victim of Shaula's writing. While the Evans family's semi-celebrity status exempts them from most of the melodrama associated with fame, it doesn't guarantee a life free of negative media coverage. A lot of it is gross exaggeration of the truth, though.

Except for the Juilliard incident.

Fuck his life.

Beside him, Maka hisses. "She's such a terrible person. I just _hate her so so so much._ " Nose crinkling and cheeks puffing out, she bumps him with her knee, leaning over like she's about to whisper a secret. It makes him nervous. "I'm so glad we're friends."

"Me too," he smiles.

* * *

Resistant to most maladies triggered by lack of sleep, Maka operates on a possibly lethal dosage of caffeine, and during inspired work sessions, she switches over to autopilot. Her trance is eerie and Soul spends a few hours on the internet trying to diagnose her, coming to the conclusion that she must not be of the human variety. Even sporting under eye bags and a _I-would-slice-your-face-off-using-nothing-but-my-nails_ grimace after an all nighter, her giggles in response to his early morning grumpiness charm her way straight into his unfeeling heart.

 _Fuck_.

It's not the same warmth that hanging out with, say, Black*Star, kindles, or his pessimistic bonding with Jackie, or even his long conversations with Kilik about sports and family shit. Maka's been different from the start and he's not sure why, except that he hopes just a smidge of her amazingness rubs off on him.

He's at Maka's place, dropping her and takeout off when Soul almost confesses his newfound _What Would Maka Do?_ way of thinking.

"Did you say something?" she asks after he stumbles over his words into awkward silence.

Confused eyebrows lift; their feet patter in sync, crunching leaves.

"Nothing. You must be hearing things."

There's no hiding the glowing blush tinting his face. Maka narrows her eyes at him, suspicious, but says nothing when he holds the door open for her, or as the elevator takes them to the sixth floor, or even during a quiet dinner, the two of them sitting cross legged by the coffee table. Their silence is natural, comfortable. This is how she unwinds after a grueling fourteen hour work day – by shutting down her overworked brain. To Maka, recharging involves peace, food, and laying down for twenty minutes, the lights dimmed, before brushing her teeth and tying her hair in pigtails, prepared for bedtime.

Soul feels a little honored that she allows him to be a part of this ritual, even if he's the one who coerced her into adopting it. She'd been a stressed-out, sleep deprived mess before Soul had assigned her a bedtime, dedicating himself to tucking her in and then trudging home to do the same for himself.

Usually, until then, Maka reads by lamplight. Tonight she decides to stick her bunny shaped bookmark in between the pages earlier than usual.

"I heard what you said, by the way," she says, closing the thick book of fairy tales he had gifted her when he had found out about her reading obsession. She'd thanked him and gently knocked him on the shoulder in the same moment, as retribution for tacking on _"because you're such a nerd"_ to his shy " _I got this for you_." Soul never knows when to be serious. Or more like, he can't be serious, can't show his emotions.

"Heard what?"

"That you ask yourself what I would do."

Cool guys don't blush – they burn and cross their arms stubbornly, willing themselves to die by extreme fluster. "People hear what they want to hear."

Maka ignores this and reaches up to separate her hair in two. "Okay, Mr. Sandman, I'm almost ready to be tucked in. You can stop admiring me from a distance and come closer."

Soul's heart thunders behind his breast bone. Sometimes the realization that he wants to kiss her hands the more he watches her sketch seeps through the iron wall of denial he has established. The urge to feel her smile with his lips after she finishes fleshing out an idea tempts him enough that he's forced to look the other way.

Relax, Soul. _Relax_.

Those are dangerous thoughts. He's gotta keep this shit locked down tight; their friendship is one built on blind trust and openness, and these not-so-platonic thoughts aren't exactly a great example of honesty. He has to conceal his feelings for her, but that's increasingly more unfeasible the more she gravitates toward him when she laughs, the more she rakes her fingers through his hair because "you didn't brush your hair today _damn it, Soul_!" The fluttering in his stomach is more of a sickness than a blessing in his opinion, and it's problematic to say the least when she texts him every morning asking how she should style her hair, and greets him by the door wearing it half swept back anyway.

Does she already know?

"I know you like my pigtails," she smiles at him, expertly.

Maybe she suspects.

"I do," Soul concedes, reaching out to twirl a bundle of blonde around an index finger. "But you almost never wear them in public."

"That's because I usually only wear pigtails to sleep," she insists, wiggling her shoulders and sticking out her tongue at his thwarted frown.

"Liar. You wore pigtails the day of the photoshoot."

She looks at him. "That was a fluke... but if you're here in the morning, you can see them," she says quickly, pretending to smooth down frizz by her temples, but Soul tinges a shade pinker than her pajama top. "I mean, you stay so late anyway, you're welcome to spend the night."

"Yeah, okay," Soul says dreamily, like a love-struck dumbass.

"We can stay up all night plotting our revenge against Shaula."

"I would love to."

"And we can start working on my designs sooner."

"Right." He flicks the side of her head. "If you think you're getting me to work before noon, you're dead wrong and you know nothing about me."

"And if you think I'm letting you get away with being lazy, you don't know me at all."

Soul's heart won't stop fluttering. Maka hears in terms of challenges, not impossibilities. She's a storm and a sunny day all at once. He's sick, very sick, but he doesn't want to be cured.

"Stay?" she asks, so he does. Saying no to Maka Albarn is impossible.

"I'll crash on the recliner. I'm used to sleeping on some sort of couch anyway," Soul reminds. He can't help but coat it in bitterness; it still stings that his parents haven't called to welcome him back into the house, no matter what Wes says they feel.

"Scoot over then," he says, diving onto the bed. Maka gasps and shrieks, the impact of his body weight springing her into the air, pigtails bouncing as she lands face first into the comforter, reproaches muffled. Bracing himself for retaliation, Soul uses an arm as a shield, hoping to be quick enough to block any fists she may throw at him. A pillow slams into his face when he dares to put them down, and soon enough, they're yelling in various octaves at each other and even Maka's stuffed animals are soaring through the air, used as ammunition. Soul, in a fit of bravery, charges toward her, lifting her off her feet and spinning her around until she chokes out a laugh that she surrenders.

He plops her down, she scoops up a Pusheen plushie and is reeling it back to carry out her revenge when a thump on the wall freezes them.

" _Shut up!_ " an angry voice orders, banging a few more times, finally satisfied at the silence.

"I'm going to get kicked out of my hotel room and it's all your fault," she bemoans in a whisper, and half-heartedly throws the round cat at his face. She covers her mouth, holding in a horrified squeal.

Soul hides a grin by tidying up the pillows and gathering up her beloved toys. "Just go to bed. I'm sure they won't tell on you."

"Stop _laughing_ and come to bed, Soul. I'm going to try to sketch some more, in case Joe comes to talk about the complaint."

"You're not going to get in trouble. You have to live a little, Maka."

Maka sits cross legged on the bed and practically folds her hands together and twiddles her thumbs.

"Goody two-shoes," he sighs to himself.

Sharing a bed with a kitty pajama clad Maka isn't how he envisioned the night unfolding. It's not terrible in the slightest. Pressing his thumb over the crinkled space in her brow in an effort to iron it out is comical and strengthens his admiration of her ability to concentrate. Forty minutes later, Maka finally snaps, smacking him on the left side of his head with her sketchbook, evening it out by immediately pounding by her free hand into the other side. Left hook, right hook, and Soul goes down.

"Go to _sleep_ ," she orders him, still whispering, pout very much reminding Soul of a toddler stomping a tiny foot on the ground. Angry growls shoo him into the bathroom, where he hides until the last fits of mirth chuckle out of him. He's half expecting her to punt him out on the curb when he crawls underneath the sheets, head down in an attempt to seem repentant.

"Soul," Maka articulates an hour later, pausing. This is how Soul learns to expect another detailed rant to fulfill some fantasy that won't let her sleep. Many a times has she called right as he's dropped onto the couch, pillow and blankets waiting invitingly for him and drowsiness gluing his eyelids together, only to end up dozing off to her fervent chatter. In the mornings, she resumes describing her dreams, waving a fork around to punctuate her zealous words while he demolishes stacks upon stacks of pancakes.

"Soul, are you awake?"

"Mmm," he grunts. Drifting somewhere between the world of blissful unconsciousness and pleasant reality, his back's pressed against the curve of her knee. The softness of her sheets combined with her tranquil silence while she doodles have lulled him halfway to a good night's rest.

"I've been thinking," she continues.

"Ughhh, someone help me."

"No, seriously. I've been thinking a lot. About you."

Soul says nothing, pulse slowing. Absolutely still, he thinks Maka's frozen up, too.

"You have a lot of time between interviews and the like for Mjlinor Strikes. Uhm, I know a designer through my papa. Kid, from Death's Reign. Anyway, he's having an open call soon."

Flashbacks to Wes cajoling Soul into showing up to the open call for Mjolnir Strikes sound a lot like this. It's a saddening thought that Soul's been too far gone to recognize when someone's trying to help him. "How soon?"

"Six days."

Soul lets go of a deep breath, rolling his eyes but unable to smother amazement that only Maka kindles. Impossible is nothing to her; she may be reckless in her way of charging headfirst into a scarcely planned adventure to a city hours away for something that doesn't involve her.

Something for him.

"Are you going to come with me? You're my stylist, after all."

"Of course. I'll go with you anywhere."

* * *

Closing her eyes momentarily like she's forever done with his nonsense, Maka smooths down her hair. "I do not _snore_."

Soul coughs to give himself time to think of a comeback, but can't. "I don't want to argue."

"Are you sure? Because your body language right now says you want me to fight you."

"No, my body language right now is friendly and asking you not to stab me with your hair brush. Again."

Even through the reflection, the intensity of her glare pierces.

"You're a bully," he yawns into his hands. He won't ever admit it, but Soul's favorite part of their sleepovers is waking up and watching Maka brush her hair, followed closely by accompanying her to the office. Fetching her from work and falling asleep at her side are at a draw for second place. Even with Maka's sleep talking and soft snoring that he secretly thinks is cute-ish, Soul enjoys their time together. A lot. Very much. Their two member slumber parties are the highlight of his life, actually. She and her girlish pigtails amuse him to no end.

"Ready to go?" he asks, shouldering his duffle bag, distracting himself by adjusting its strap so that it hangs right by his hip. He doesn't have to watch to know that she's perfecting and preening, adding bobby pins to tame what she calls 'disobeying frizz'. By the time she's buttoning up her pea coat, Soul's skin is in a full out mutiny: cold, crawling, and possibly ready to disintegrate off his body. It's not as intense as he felt years ago before recitals, but it's still familiar enough to unnerve him.

To maintain his composed demeanor (read: dodge a meltdown), Soul had avoided researching the designer beforehand, much to Maka's displeasure. Now he's wondering what the ever loving fuck is wrong with him. When was he able to feel feelings, much less two of them at the same time? When Maka lures him out of his mind by poking at his nose, something in his chest bursts, something warm, but anxiety constricts his blood vessels readily.

"Ready to go?" she echoes him.

"Mhmm."

He had been doing _so well_.

But this.

 _This_ erases everything.

Walls close in; he's shutting down, and he follows Maka wordlessly and numbly as they weave between the crowds and push their way onto the train. She says something about stopping at point whatever and catching another one, but Soul wants to tell her that modeling is a mistake, he can't do it, and whatever she and Marie had seen in him disappeared along with his bravery.

But he can't even express that.

"How are you doing?" she asks softly.

"I'm fine, I think." Soul takes a long breath. "Wait, no… I'm nervous."

Soul wants to say that she snuck up on him, but he feels her fingers moving for him. The contact must break him again, because she's gentle and if he's ever needed anything, it's gentleness. She intertwines her fingers with his and he thinks it's astounding how she can unravel his nerves and straighten them out just by offering her support. He's a soft hearted musician at his core, a sentimental soul who relishes soundless strength. There, amongst strangers, standing on a rattling train, Maka holds his hand for the first time.

"Is this okay?"

 _God_ , yes.

* * *

Maka doesn't let go, and it reaches something untouchable in Soul.

Maybe it's because he feels too much.

Their hotel room is nothing special. It's smaller than Maka's, with lackluster paint, worn wallpaper, furniture that seems like it's a few decades old, and two lonely twin beds separated by a nightstand. Neither of them say anything as they drop their bags near the desk. Maka declares her delight that there are no plants in sight, plopping down on the white comforter, arms spread above her head. "I hadn't realized how tiring a four hour commute was. I think I need a nap."

No amount of rest will cure Soul of the exhaustion that clings to him. It's permanent. A daze he's too familiar with has settled underneath his skin, and he shrugs off his jacket, kicks his shoes off, and vanishes underneath the comforters.

"I need a nap, too," he says. A long nap, one that will kill the anxiety. "I'm so tired."

Maka turns her head to smile bashfully at him. "Should we push the beds together?"

"That's too much work." Oops, wrong words, always wrong. A cascade of emotions take control of Maka's face: shock, rejection, and the struggle to feign okay. Soul extends a hand across the space between them. "Come here instead."

She rolls of her bed gracefully, shimmying beside him. It's considerable warmer, of course, because Maka can't be fierce without being physically warm, too. There's nothing different about this, yet _everything's_ different about this, even the way she moves carefully, slowly. Maka's never held him before, and his heart slams in his chest loudly, her arm swathed over him protectively.

Soul shuts his eyes. _Goodbye for now, world_. "I'm tired," he repeats.

Maka brings the covers up to his chin. "I'll stay here. Sleep well."

* * *

The closer it is to audition time, the more Soul's stomach churns.

He sleeps through the night, waking up to Maka slipping away for a moment into the unfamiliar shadows to fetch him a water bottle. Fear of being alone with his nightmares drives him to call her name – he knows better than to rely on anyone (no, that can't be right; Soul isn't built to be alone, but he's isolated himself, and he can't continue like this, inherently _alone_ ).

It's not a difficult decision to make. Maka floofs his hair and karate chops the top of his head gently in one smooth movement, toothbrush poking out of her mouth. "Whatcha doing? We're goin' be late."

Life is beating them up, Soul thinks to himself, tucking back one of her deviant locks while she double checks the open call's address. Maka overworks, never sleeps, doesn't eat unless he cooks dinner or orders fast food, and has probably stayed overnight at the office when he doesn't pick her up. On the other hand, he sleeps too much when she isn't around, binges, and watches useless early morning infomercials when she doesn't read to him before bedtime.

Adulting is hard, but at least they watch out for each other.

Thick rain droplets splatter on the sidewalk. Soul stares at their feet, mind buzzing pleasantly because Maka's proximity (why does she smell so good?) makes his skin tingle. Unable to label the phenomenon, he finds himself staring at Maka, who glances upward, the outline of grey clouds reflected in her irises.

"Did you bring an umbrella?" She sticks her hand in her purse frantically.

"I forgot it," he replies, squinting as a droplet lands on his nose.

Maka frowns, stating that she also left hers in the room.

There is a cold burst of wind that sprays more raindrops onto them. Sluggishly, it dawns on Soul that he's practically on his way to an interview, that he had painstakingly ironed the jeans and t-shirt Maka had sewn for him. He had even combed and parted his hair. He's _on his way to an open call._ Success depends on his appearance and timeliness. Another nail of disappointment digs into his chest – of course the sky is opening up and pouring on him.

Adjusting the strap of her purse, she nods at him. "We're five blocks away! We can make it if we run-"

"PFFFT. Black*Star's car caught on fire last year when we were stuck in traffic, and I didn't even run when that happened."

Insistent, Maka takes his wrist, gripping it so tightly he thinks she can feel his erratic pulse. "Soul Evans, did you get up at five in the morning and travel to another state just to give up now? It's just a little rain, and you're so close to being there. Give it your all, remember?"

Shoulders burning with the memory of her touch, Soul's mind flashes back to when Maka had pulled him away and granted him some of her courage. His mind is littered with negativity - he is prone to forget hope when his failures seem so daunting, so close.

"Ready?" She tugs him again, just as she did during the photoshoot, except they whip past other pedestrians and pick up speed. More than just adrenaline rush surges through his veins. For a second, Soul is careless, unintimidated by his demons, all because his lungs fill with cold, crisp air and Maka's hair sails in front of him like a flag.

Of course, something has to go wrong.

It happens in slow motion, because all catastrophes, mortifying and tragic, occur unhurriedly, so every detail is seared into the subconscious. Four swear words leave her mouth as she collapses onto the sidewalk. If it hadn't been for holding hands, her fall may have resulted in smashed teeth instead of banged up knees. Howling, she rolls over, damning the pothole that caused her to trip.

At first, he thinks it's nothing. Maka is prone to clumsiness when she gets overexcited. It's endearing and Soul admires that she can be two things at once - graceful yet brash, confident yet vulnerable. The fall is nothing, and he asks if she's okay - but then she hesitates answering, attempting to shift her weight awkwardly, releasing his hand to cover her knee.

"Soul, don't," Maka warns, defeated. "Just leave me here. Go to the open call."

Kneeling down in a puddle, unfazed by her indignant squeals of protest, Soul poises a hand over hers. "Are you bleeding?"

She jerks away. "No," she lies, spreading her fingers to mask the trickle of red by the run in her stocking.

"Maka, that's bullshit." Full Panic Mode activates. How does he clean a wound? Does she need stitches? Why didn't he catch her? When she can't bear weight on that leg, he fucking knows it's more than a simple scrape. "Fuck," he breathes, imaging the worst.

"It's okay, we can still make it to the open call," Maka says calmly.

"No, I'm not worried about that. You're hurt." He would have laughed until he cried, but it's not cool or socially acceptable for an adult to bawl in public, so he scowls and kneels down. "Climb on my back."

"It's just a scrape, Soul,," she lies, biting her lip to restrain a smile at his ridiculousness. "It's not like I broke any bones. Really, I'm fine! I'm not a damsel in distress. It's probably just a little sprain. I can walk it off in a little bit!"

A beat of silence later, after a long stare, she relents, all too easily and very shyly.

Maka laughs right by his ear when he hooks his hand behind her knee, saying she's ticklish.

* * *

Shit happens all the time to Soul Evans. It's his life's story, his destiny, and he should be unsurprised that wandering into the open call drenched in rain and some blood immediately killed his chances of landing a contract. Not only that, but the pale faced designer dubbed him an asymmetrical mess, snubbed his extended hand, and reprimanded Maka for the runs in her stockings. It had been nothing short of a disaster, much like Shaula's articles about him, his recitals, auditions, solos, …

He tries to not list all of his failures.

Maka offers him a sip of her hot chocolate, telling him to stop covering the side of his mouth. "I like your dimple and crooked face. It gives you character," she says, plopping down next to him.

Goosebumps swell up and down his arms at hearing this. "It's so stupid. Why do I have only one? What's the point of it?"

Maka squares up to him. "Smile for me." He does, pinking (only a little) as she presses her index finger into the miniature crater. "I like your smile."

Soul wasn't built to resist a gentle touch; in moments like these, he is overly aware of just how deeply he is fond of Maka, and it alarms him.

"Kid didn't like my smile, though," he frowns distractedly.

Maka sighs, wiggles closer to him, smooths her skirt over her thighs, and folds her hands in her lap. He feels like a pile of actual trash for not planning ahead – it's _his_ fucking open call, his career that he's trying to get started, and his indirect fault for her getting hurt. Maka should be focused on her own career, not his, but it just speaks to her caring personality that she is sticking by his side while he wages a war on his self-esteem.

Slouching, he asks, "Was this a waste of time?"

"No," she smiles at him, chopping the top of his head gently. "You're so hard on yourself. You need to relax."

Exhaustion clings to him like a second skin. Thoughts of _Why am I like this?_ rumble around the unfilled spaces in his head, where confidence is supposed to exist.

Soul sighs, scoots closer to her, and asks if he can hold her hand.

"Okay," she agrees, cheeks bright.

It's comforting, sitting underneath the bus stop awning, rain in their hair and on their skin. They're not rushing to get anywhere, or worried about appearances, or thinking too much about what's to come, because contemplating his future has always paralyzed his heart. He has never thought he would amount to much. The world is big and Soul hasn't found a calling; the cycle is endless, but at least he is more confident that he can change what it looks like.

"Let's stay here for a bit."


	4. love at first sight

"I really do hate everyone," Jackie monotones, sliding her thumb up her phone's screen. "There are too many people here. I told you we should have come at night."

"It was supposed to be a quick run," Kilik apologizes. Pushing their half-full shopping cart around a father failing at shushing his toddler with a teddy bear, he leads them to the back of a line at a checkout lane.

Agitated, Jackie counts the number of people in front of them. "Seven! All of them have full baskets!"

"Calm down," Soul sneers. "We didn't make you come with us."

If she could breathe fire, she would roast him alive. "I would be calmer if your phone stopped making that quacking sound every ten minutes. Ever since Wes won a Grammy and that Death designer guy rejected you, you've been unbearable. Just answer so Wes can shut the fuck up, or block his number."

There are numerous reasons why he can't do that - while Soul has invested years' worth of effort trying to detach himself from his brother out of envy, he cares too much to cut Wes out completely. But hearing one of the songs Wes wrote three times on the short drive to the grocery store must have stunted his maturity, because he's receded into his sullen old self, and he hates it. Fuming that he was robbed of talent because it all went to Wes, he remembers that cheating on his final project at Juilliard earned him the bad reputation, and he can only redirect that hatred towards himself.

And Shaula Gorgon, for having a hand at publicizing his expulsion.

A cacophony of quacks honk from Soul's pocket; Jackie loses her shit. "Put your phone on silent!"

"Put your mouth on silent," he snaps, appreciating the last seconds left of his life.

"Stop," Kilik pleads, and the pair does, Jackie whipping around to give Soul the cold shoulder. Muttering darkly about his foul mood recently, she details her plan to drag him to California so he can apologize for being an 'inconsiderate, bitter sharkfaced baby bastard.' The magazine rack suffers the brunt of her threats, which stop abruptly.

"I forgot something," she says quickly, loudly. "Soul, can you get me some almond milk?"

"Why me?"

Hands on his back, she shoves him into the side of a pyramid-shaped cereal display. "Your legs are longer than mine, so you can get there faster."

If he doesn't let go of some of the anger, his arteries may burst. Stomping across the store attracts attention. A teenager scampers up to him, asking him to sign a scrap of paper. Soul, knee-deep in stupefaction, scribbles his name backwards, getting a kick out of the overzealous thanks the band t-shirt wearer squeals. It's probably another sad episode of People-Think-I'm-Wes.

He tries to bury the hatchet, he really does. Logic has nothing to do with fairness. Wes had a ten year head start on music, of course he was always the better musician. Still, Soul is one-hundred percent _arsenic_ about it -

Actually, he better not think about it anymore.

Trudging back to the line, he sees Kilik and Jackie gossiping near the tabloids, heads bent together. It's not unusual for either of them to scheme pranks, but it is to plot one while he's in a bad mood.

They buzz like mosquitoes at the sight of him.

Soul raises an eyebrow. "What were you guys looking at?"

Jackie, shushing Kilik, smirks not-so-innocently. "Nothing."

* * *

Later that night, not even hand holding cajoles Soul.

Sleep is impossible with his temper at an all time high. For the first few hours after Maka turns off her reading lamp, wishing him a goodnight, his brain hisses madly, forcing him to revisit every time someone gushed about Wes. Wes this, Wes that, Wes Wes _Wes_. To say that Soul harbours a passionate, senseless grudge against a brother who provides limitless support, even when Soul refuses to accept it, would be an understatement. It's not Wes's fault that Soul royally screwed up one too many times. Young Soul is not to blame for comparing himself to someone who is ten years his elder, but Grown Up Soul should know better.

When he is done bullying himself, he focuses on Maka's breathing. Guilt aided in his decision to sleep with his back facing her - she's too stressed out to be the one housing him, especially when he is grouchy. He knows from many prior sleepovers that she doesn't move in her slumber, save for the occasional restless twitch.

Counting the seconds between her breaths soothes the mental pandemonium screeching obscenities at him.

She wakes up an hour earlier than usual. Resting her chin on his arm, she reaches over to poke his dimple. "Hey, Soul? Are you awake?"

"I think so," he replies truthfully.

"Want to get breakfast?"

Soul knows she's being extra kind to him. He knows he's regressing, throwing more boulders on top of himself, crushing himself. Self destruction is a default setting for him, a habit, and he's going to try his damndest to recalibrate himself. Maka, the sweet angel that she is, holds his hand and guides him to his favorite diner. Waffles are not the remedy to his mood. Nothing is, except making peace with Wes, his parents, and coming to terms with Juilliardgate.

Wiping Shaula's smirk off her smug face would help him feel a little better, though.

"I have to tell you something," he begins cautiously, their food arriving.

Fork hovering over blueberry pancakes, Maka turns white. "Hmm?" Her voice is a whimper.

"I cheated on one of my finals at Juilliard," he admits. Saying it aloud disgusts him. Shame constricts his throat, and he feels like he's going to choke. "I used someone's song. And that's why I didn't finish college. I got kicked out."

Maka, however, looks relieved, like she has broken the surface after diving and staying underwater too long. "Give me a moment. I thought you were going to tell me you were dati-just, okay. Let me pull myself together."

Drowning the whole stack in syrup and demolishing it is her way of regaining composure. The studious, goody-goody A+ student in her shines through as she exclaims, aghast, "You were expelled? All those articles Shaula Gorgon wrote were true?"

Keeping up with the tabloid writer's movements is right up Maka's alley. With all the myths and absurd accusations Shaula Gorgon perpetuates about her family, it only makes sense that she closely follows what she publishes. Had she known the entire time, yet granted him the benefit of the doubt?

"You knew?" he squeaks.

She shrinks, sheepish and regretful. "Ah, uhm… I'm so sorry! It was everywhere!"

Will screaming waken him from this never ending shame?

"I thought it was just Shaula trash talking again," Maka tries to console him.

"No, it was all true. It happened so fast, the dean practically punted me off campus." Dread kills any appetite Soul might have had - in fact, he doesn't think he'll ever want to eat again. "Do you know how humiliating it was? The dean herself escorted me off campus. She kept saying that she had never expected that from an Evans."

"That's really terrible. I'm so sorry-"

"I didn't even pack my stuff once I saw she was knocking on my door. I knew what was happening. I couldn't show my face. And to make it worse-" he breaks off, incensed. There it is. Rage boils his blood, sours his soul, and hardens his heart. "To make it all worse, after Shaula wrote about me in the society column, I got into a huge argument with my parents. I left and I haven't been back home since. They haven't even called me."

By this time, Maka's mouth hangs open. "Are you serious? So... that's why you're living with Kilik?"

"Yeah," Soul nods. "He's done so much for me. He doesn't charge me rent, and even though I clean and do everything else, I feel like I'm taking advantage of him. Wes offered to take me in but I hated him even more after what happened. He's the perfect son, I'm the terrible one. He went to Juilliard too and even got his masters."

"I was wondering why you don't talk to your brother," she says, adding a sugar to her coffee.

"I've been pushing him away. I can't stand myself." The meaning of heartbreak is her expression after hearing this, but he goes on: "I can't forgive myself."

"But what happened at Juilliard isn't the end. None of this should decide what you want your future to look like. Were you happy playing music?"

Skipping private lessons and finding new excuses not to tryout for state symphonies was a chore. "Fuck, no."

She leans toward him. "Do you miss it?"

"Never."

"What about Wes? Do you miss him?"

Soul doesn't have to answer this. He can't. No combination of words exist to explain his inferiority complex and the hesitant love he feels for his brother. He is so sorry for being such a _shit_.

Maka grabs his hands. She knows him so well. "Don't be so hard on yourself okay?"

"I'm trying."

"You told me you weren't happy playing music. You don't have to live up to other people's expectations. But what about now? Are you happier?"

Is there a way to gauge happiness? Part of him finds modeling boring, but it may be the anxiety talking. The Mjolnir Strikes photoshoot shouldn't be his only judgment - he had been hyperventilating, a second shy of passing out. Enough time has passed now that he's a little more confident he could actually wear another expression besides misery. He even feels a little bit of excitement at the prospect, but it's difficult not to feel anything but hopeful in Maka's presence.

"I'm not where I used to be, that's for sure," he answers. "I used to want to die."

She doesn't gasp, doesn't tell him him to hold on - nothing in life is certain, and promises would be lies. Maka's view on life is simple: _give it your all, don't back down_. Anything beyond that should not be worried over, because it's out of his control. Having grown up with the thought that success was mandatory, he loves this way of thinking so, so much.

It's freeing.

Catharsis. That's what Soul needed. The calm that ensues may have something to do with feeling a little less alone. At least he doesn't have to be tethered to his mistakes - now that he's shared some of his pain, it's less suffocating.

* * *

The pair finds Kim hovering by Maka's office at Mjolnir Strikes after breakfast, a stack of manila folders held to her chest. She doesn't strike Soul as a cheery morning person, so he avoids eye contact and feels self-conscious as she watches Maka stand on her tippy toes to envelope Soul in a quick but tight hug.

Asking him for a smile and poking his dimple, she tells him to have faith in himself, and that she'll see him for dinner.

"Hold on." Kim blocks his path to the exit, leaping in front of him. Shit. He had _almost_ made it out without trouble. "Maka told me you gave her a piggyback ride after she sprained her knee.

When ambushed, it's better not to make any sudden movement, so Soul doesn't. He has no qualms admitting that Kim Diehl scares the living _f u c k_ out of him. Abrasive, intimidating, and unruly, she has earned the number one spot on the very short list of people he doesn't want to piss off. Maka has recounted enough stories of their bungy jumping and raving adventures to be acquainted with Kim's level of persuasiveness.

"I'm not sure if you were trying to help her or cop a feel, but I appreciate you looking after her. She's been going through a tough time." Talking about Maka in anguish charges the air with heaviness. Crossing her arms, Kim sighs. "Ever since Arachne fired her, she's been really down. I think she took it as a sign that her career was ending before it even started."

That's a lonely thought - it _fucking hurts_ that she's been working so hard to make up for a mistake that could have happened to anyone. The reason why she takes on extra tasks and dedicates sixty hours a week to the office clicks now.

He has high hopes for Maka, and he can't wait to watch her glory.

Neither can Kim. "What I'm trying to say is, don't fuck up. Don't hurt her. She's going places, I just know it, and I don't want it to be ruined because some idiot distracts her."

Unbelievable as it seems, he feels a little closer to her. Both would fight an entire herd of wild hogs for Maka.

"And thanks for making sure she sleeps. That girl would have died by now if it weren't for you, to be honest. Do me a favor and be extra attentive, okay?" She sneaks a glance over her shoulders before continuing: "Maka doesn't know yet, but Shaula Gorgon is going to interview Marie. I found out yesterday."

Soul's blood runs cold. "I feel so confused. Why?"

"It's just one of those stupid articles that celebrity magazines publish." Irked that he hasn't been paying attention to what the public is saying about him, she goes off a tangent about the importance of staying two steps ahead of the media. Tuning her out is effortless. Contrary to how he had lived before, Soul hasn't been investing energy in things that embitter him. He considers it personal growth. Where is his gold medal?

"It'll be fine," he says. "It's not like this interview will affect Maka."

Exhaling tiredly, Kim shakes her head sadly. "You are so delusional." And then she smirks. "The pictures turned out great, by the way," she says, thumping the puzzlement out of him with a fist, _hard_ , the studded ring on her finger pricking him. What pictures? "You're a keeper. I approve of you."

* * *

"Wes, this is the fifth time you've called me this morning, and it's not even ten yet. What's so important? Is everything okay?"

"Little brother! Your older brother just misses you, that's all. How are you doing today?"

"Ugh. You're using your _I-know-something-about-you-I-think-is-cute_ voice. What is it?"

"I hope you're doing fantastic-"

"Just tell me what you know, Wes!"

"And that you are sleeping well-"

"I'm going to hang up."

"-And that your heart is less hateful than usual."

"It's not. Goodbye."

"Before you go, is there anything you would like to tell me?"

"I hate this guessing game, Wes. I never liked it when I was five and I don't like it now."

"Tell me everything."

"About what?"

"About the photoshoot! I'm looking at the editorial spread right now, and I am having so many emotions. My baby brother is all grown up."

"I'm a grown man, damn it."

"Tell me. It's unhealthy to keep secrets."

"I don't want to be healthy."

"Okay, but let me tell you one thing, Soul. This girl with pigtails is sooooo cute. Where did you find her? Where did she take you?"

"Wha – what?"

"In the photos from the Mjolnir Strikes editorial. You're standing by yourself with this really nervous expression on your face, like you're wishing you could disappear – which breaks my heart, by the way. But in the next series of photos, there is this darling girl that strides up to you, and your face just glows when you look at her. You look so smitten. And she takes you by the hand and leads you away, off-camera. She is just so adorable. I want her to be my sister-in-law and I want her to be in our family pictures. Didn't you know the editorial came out yesterday?"

"No, I didn't! Hold on, shut up, I'm going to look it up-"

"The pictures turned out wonderfully. You look great in that suit. Marie is such a talented designer."

" _God, is this really the editorial?"_

"You look love-struck in those pictures, little brother. No wonder people are nicknaming the spread 'love at first sight'. You've never been able to hide your feelings. What's her name?"

"I want to die."

"Oh, she doesn't know how you feel, does she? Don't panic, Soul! All will be okay. Just be honest and open and don't drool when you kiss her."

"Fuck you, Wes. I have to go."

"Don't bite her until you know she's cool with that kind of thing."

"I can't believe this – is that really my face?"

"You are so adorable. She looks so determined, taking you away from the set. You can really feel her passion, and how much she cares about you."

"… You really think so?"

"Soul, it really is absurd how stupid you are."

"Bye, Wes!"

"Hold on! Kilik says that you've been spending a lot of time not at the apartment. What have you been up to?"

"Remove yourself from my life immediately, and stop using my friends to spy on me."

"You're so secretive, though. No wonder you don't answer my calls anymore. You're too busy being a doting boyfriend. Did you grow feelings?"

"You know as well as anyone that I don't care about anything – stop laughing!"

"Nice try. Everyone knows you're a broody idiot that feels and cares way too much."

"I'm going to hang up now. Goodbye forever, Wes."

"Okay."

"…Wait, Wes?"

"Yes?"

"Sorry about, uh… about yelling at you about Marie's open call. I'm an asshole."

"You are. But don't mention it. I guess I can be a little bit too overprotective of you."

"Yeah, but I wouldn't have gone if you hadn't come all the way over here to make me… Anyways, sorry. And thanks."

"You are very welcome, little brother. Give my regards to my sister-in-law!"

"Also, don't _ever_ call me again."

* * *

What a shitfest of a four hour period.

Apparently the editorial had been published yesterday, and he has been blissfully oblivious. Suddenly the reason behind Jackie and Kilik's cagey behavior at the grocery store is clear, as is the other shoppers' gawking. The photoshoot seems like it happened in another lifetime, but it's here and he is not sure how to feel.

The photographer must have still been snapping pictures as Maka strode in, whisking Soul into the hallway to calm him down. Each frame before she appears narrates self-loathing, uncertainty, regret - hopelessness. There is a certain surrealism in seeing himself look so _disoriented_. The micro-expressions are a part of him he had never known existed. Inherently alone, Soul looks vulnerable, and _that_ kind of nakedness goes beyond clothing.

He's in front of camera, bare.

Nowhere to hide, nothing to pretend.

Has his face always been this expressive?

Then Maka sashays into the shots with a sureness about her, sure and capable in her every step. It radiates through the page, it empowers. She reaches out for him. While nothing can cure loneliness as a state of mind, tranquility mollifies his features at her arrival.

She leads him away; he is less alone, at least physically.

Soul can see why people like the editorial.

By the time he slinks home from the nearest store minutes after the phone call with his brother, an issue of Vogue rolled up in his fist, the shock of seeing his face plastered on the front cover still hasn't ebbed. The clerk had rung up the magazine and Soul's chocolate bars with the same star-struck twinkle he had seen people wear in Wes's presence. Although back then envy had surged through every nerve in his ten-year-old body, he's not too sure how to interpret the situation now. Ducking behind a dumpster to avoid a group of giggling preteens that had been following him hadn't been how he had imagined spending his morning, but he manages to safely elude anyone.

Except Black*Star.

"Ugh, really? Do you have to be here?"

Said trespasser smirks at him from the table, frosting on his forehead. Not only is Soul angry that the boxer broke into the apartment to tease him - he fumes that he's eating the last slice of red velvet cake. "I came to get your autograph so I could sell it on Ebay."

"Please. No one but you and Wes care about this editorial."

"This time you're wrong, though," he insists, waving his own copy like a flag. "I even saw people talking about it on Facebook. All the middle aged women said they think you're very handsome and dashing. They want your body."

Soul flips him off. Public humiliation isn't foreign to him. The speculation of his and Maka's relationship feels like a blatant invasion of privacy. His feelings for her are secret, and he intends to keep them safely where they are - buried, hidden, and unvoiced to anyone, especially Maka.

"I'm gonna take a leak. You better be gone by the time I get out."

He is - and so is Soul's phone. He finds them on them balcony. Black*Star is not a quiet person by any means, but he speaks in hushed tones, back turn to him while he holds the sliding door closed. Scrawny arms no match for the boxer, Soul gives in, choosing to glare through the glass.

Who could he possibly be talking to?

Fuck, is it Maka? His frantic calls to her had been answered with a smiley face emoticon and a text: "come over tonight and we'll talk about the editorial." It's just like her to make him wait. Teasing him is a sport.

Seventeen minutes later, the door slides open.

"What was that about?" Soul immediately asks as Black*Star hobbles inside.

"Wes is doing so well. You should really talk to your family more, Soul. I didn't know he was taking a break from traveling with that violin quartet to write full time."

And the most terrible brother award goes to... Soul Evans. Taking a brick to the face would have hurt less. He knows very little about Wes, and he can only blame himself. He can't decide what he wants. "I'm going to guess I won't have to talk to him more, since you're going to start spying on me for him."

Black*Star shakes his head. "You have trust issues."

Scowling, Soul looks at his notifications. Four missed calls from his brother. Two text messages. From Jackie. Awful-natured, gossiping Jackie, who can spin webs of truth into spectacular fantasies. One is a picture of the editorial with her added comment, "Sexy!" and the other of a close up of his face that says, "OMG YOU LOOK SO IN LOVE LMAO!"

"I'm never leaving this apartment again," Soul moans.

"Why does Kilik have to suffer?" BlackStar asks, feigning torment. He digs himself into the loveseat, hands behind his head, gazing at the television with an awe that scares Soul. "Hmm… So, the mystery of who you've been ditching us for is revealed. And she's your boss."

"I don't have to explain anything to you, but no, she's not my boss."

"What is she to you, then? Your guardian angel? Your mistress?"

"Don't think too hard, you'll hurt yourself."

Scratching his chin, Black*Star squints. "Does this mean you're getting paid and laid by the boss lady… Or is your pay getting laid? What currency is that in?"

* * *

"You're such a… lying _nerd_!"

Grinning so blissfully that it knocks the wind out of him, Maka tugs him inside and shuts the door. It's close to midnight and all he wants to do is hold her. He is not okay. "I've never lied about anything," she responds, laughing. The sound lights up the small hotel room, the yellow light from the reading lamp submerging them in tranquility. Part of the calming effect must be his body reacting to her nearness. "I can't believe it took you half a day to find out! You are so oblivious."

He finds his voice. "Why didn't you tell me the pictures from the editorial had been released?"

Not bothering to hide her glee at his cluelessness, she tugs his beanie down over his eyes. "You

said you didn't want to know about it," she says innocently, fingers intertwining with his. "You're so cold."

"Hey, don't change the subject! Did you know you were going to be in the pictures?"

"Of course! I had to sign a release form and everything. Didn't you wonder why the crew was cheering when we were in the hallway, talking?"

"I don't notice much, I guess..."

She cups his face with her free hand. "It's okay. You were going through a tough time."

As of late, their relationship has evolved from fleeting touches to everlasting contact. Maka is the exception to his self-inflicted isolation. He rips off his beanie, tossing it on the bed. "I just had to walk around the block a couple of times to lose some weirdo who kept following me even after I gave him my autograph. I'm just so glad I didn't have to hide in a dumpster again."

"Remember I predicted that when we first met? My prophecy is coming true," she quips.

"Shhh." Ruffling her hair is a mistake. It's so soft and silky and soft and silky, he never wants to stop. _Fuck,_ he has it bad. "That's only happened twice now."

"It's okay, I still like you, even if you have to live in a trash can." Can she feel his pulse quicken? They're so in tune with each other that sometimes Soul is afraid to feel too much in her presence. "What are you waiting for? Take off your jacket, and make yourself at home. I already loaded the movie we're going to watch."

"Release my hand, please," he winks. Sometimes he is brave enough to respond to her (unintentional?) flirting.

"Oh, right." Pinking slightly, she strides over to the desk while he sheds his shoes. Another mark of their closeness includes Soul's complete comfort undressing in front of her. There is nothing to be misconstrued about his near nudity when she is testing out her clothes on him, measuring and pinning and adjusting. Yes, his skin blazes while she works, and yes, he is at his most vulnerable, but he feels safe with Maka Albarn.

"The one time I decided to wear my hair in pigtails," she reminisces, wiggling her shoulders. "And now everyone is saying how much they like the look on me."

Soul _has_ to know. Before he can think, he is beside her, watching her stare at the editorial with a faraway, dreamy look. Is it because of him? What does she think of the title ' _Love at first sight_ '? Never had it occurred to him that he would someday want _so much_. "Do you like the pictures?"

"I love them. We look great together, don't we, partner?"

* * *

Fame is weird. Soul has fans? Like, blogs dedicated to him? A fan website? Why?

Jackie laminates the editorial, sets it as her screensaver on her laptop, and blogs about him, like a proud mother. As a reward for his success and a semi-apology for teasing him, she orders pizza for lunch the next day and camps out in Kilik's living room with Soul, who refuses to venture outside. Suddenly, all the staring and attention feels so… wrong. Guffawing about Soul's obliviousness until she coughs, she reads articles about him aloud, snickering.

"Soul, you are the world's most terrible model. I love it."

"Why do people like me so much? I'm so confused. I didn't even do anything."

"If only your fans truly knew you. You wore too much gel all through high school, fart every time you burp, and cry during sad movies."

"... You know what? I can't even be offended," Soul shrugs, rolling over on his stomach to snuggle into his couch. Months ago, he would have never imagined gaining the clarity or strength to leave its comforting cushions.

"Who knew this modeling thing would have worked out for you so well?"

He'll never stop being sarcastic. "I'm just _soooo_ glad my nervous breakdown actually made me famous. I'm so glad people recognize me on the street and follow me around like creeps."

"You're very lucky," Jackie agrees, nodding sagely.

Save for the occasional sigh from one of them and a few "want something from the kitchen?", both surf the internet, Jackie snorting at blog posts about him and Soul scouring for new music. Everything about his sudden fame unsettles him. Being asked to sign autographs is tolerable, but the staring - _ugh_. And he can do without the endless questions about Maka.

Is nothing sacred?

Jackie, half falling off her couch, reaches out and kicks him. "Hey! Listen to me - Shaula Gorgon wrote a little blurb about you!"

Of course. He feels nothing at first. It's like all his nerves are snipped to pieces. If the scandal at Juilliard resurfaces, he is not sure he will recover - why can't the whole ordeal just _die_? The more stable his life seems, the more Shaula's presence grows, like a mold.

Vomiting could be the only way to exorcise the sick feeling gurgling in his stomach.

Sitting up, Jackie reads: " _It seems that after being expelled from Juilliard for trying to pass off a classical piano piece as his own, Soul Evans has turned to modeling. A source close to Soul tells me that the ex-musician stole the heart of Marie Mjolnir's assistant and stylist to nab the contract. Like most entitled rich kids, he intends to use his looks to cover the fact that he possesses next to no talent. How will he ruin this? Stay tuned."_

Pulling his hair out from his scalp one by one would be less tormenting. "At least I'm entertaining," he offers feebly.

Best friends don't let each other be trashed by the paparazzi. Outraged enough for the both of them, Jackie balls her fists, her wrath palpable. "Pfft, what close source? She's pulling this out of her ass!"

"No one believes her, it's okay-"

"I'll avenge you!" she vows, turning to the screen so fast her glasses flash. "I'm not going to just stand by and let her talk shit about you again!"

"Jackie, please don't do anything. Just leave her alone," he begs, but already knows by the furious clicking of her keyboard that it's too late. This girl is nothing without her blog. Five pizza slices later, she announces that she has 'saved his ass':

 _TO: shaulagorgon_

 _what's your deal? are you really beating someone down who is trying to turn their life around? i'm always here for talking shit but you've reached a new low. i know that you're bitter and hateful because other people are more successful than you. i am too. I AM TOO. but it's fucked up that you're bringing back old shit. LET SOUL LIVE. he fucked up really bad. it happens. no one cares that he got kicked out of juilliard so fast it gave him a diaper rash. pls. i am so sick of you. everyone is so sick of you. stop writing. find a new job._

 _actually you know what? FUCK OFF, SHAULA_

* * *

A week passes and it has yet to blow up in his face. The post spreads like a virus thanks Jackie's dependable followers, more of Soul's fans join the movement against negative media coverage, and Shaula remains distrustfully silent. While Jackie seems to think that she has shut the reporter's mouth for good, Soul knows better, and takes to checking her website with such frequency that pulling out his phone every ten minutes becomes a habit.

Maka, upon reading the post that currently has 3,403,259 notes on Rumblr, decides she wants to befriend Jackie.

"I really want to meet her," she repeats. Between Kim reminders to keep Marie's interview with Shaula on the down-low and Maka practically living in her office, Soul wonders if he should arrange for the two to meet as a distraction.

"Nah," he says, balancing their soft drinks and takeout while she unlocks the door. They stumble into the darkness of the hotel room until Maka finds the lightswitch. "She's an awful person and a bad influence."

"But she seems so funny. And she totally did the right thing by speaking out against Shaula. Tabloid writers like her are terrible. I wish I had stuck up for myself more when I did my interview with her."

How many of her brain cells will burst when she finds out about Marie's upcoming interview with Shaula? Soul worries. Conspiring with Kim feels like lying. But they don't want Maka to wither away, bitter and full of hate.

"Jackie did it for the shits and giggles," he insists. "She loves to piss people off."

"She did it because she is your friend and really cares about you," Maka says gently. "You have great friends, you know."

Soul knows. He owes them so much. One day he will return their kindness in full.

"Also, I was not aware you had stolen my heart and fooled me into getting Marie to hire you." Taking her drink and pausing to sip, she waggles a finger at him. "You are so devious."

* * *

 _What Would Maka Albarn Do?_

She would rip apart the internet in search of open calls, submit her portfolio to every agency she came across, and aim to land as many modeling gigs as humanly possible, small or not.

Except Soul isn't Maka.

But lacking her in-your-face approach to life doesn't mean he won't be successful. After following her around the apartment during the six a.m hussle to get ready for work, reminding her to eat and hydrate as she frantically searches for her other shoe, he resolves to find another modeling gig. All he needs is something lowkey, something simple, something that will provide some sort of stability and heal his self-confidence.

Who is he shitting? Anything would be fine. He has low standards. Driven by Kilik's encouragement ("you're well known as a model now, use it to your advantage!"), he prays for patience and good luck.

Hours of agonizing over open-call listings later, Soul is rewarded with a reasonable opportunity: _young male model wanted for winter wear apparel website_. Perfect couldn't be a better descriptor. Soul's affinity for sweaters and jackets and anything comfy is unrivaled - and he needs cash money. Of course, he would have never thought that modeling would excite him, but here he is.

He decides Maka has shared some of her self-assuredness with him.

Two bus tickets purchased, a hotel room booked, and the date marked on his calendar, Soul rehearses how he's going to ask Maka to go. She had convinced him that she didn't mind the new scar on her knee, but guilt of taking up her time still devours him.

She makes him nervous. "Hey, uhm…"

Maka bumps him with her hip. "Hey what?"

Here goes nothing. "There's this open call I'm going to... I know last time was a disaster, but I was wondering if you wanted to go with me?"

As she jumps up to wrap her arms and legs around him, shouting that she's so _so_ proud of him for not giving up, cheek pressed against his, Soul thinks that _she's so close_ , what would it feel like to kiss her? It would be an extension of them, a more somatic display of their relationship. But he hushes the risky thought, opting to spin, spin, spin until the voices are replaced by dizziness, Maka holding on tightly.

* * *

Soul wants to hold Maka, as more than a friend.

* * *

Maka is Soul's polar opposite. Any tiny amount of doubt and stress would revert him to his natural state of Cowering Fool with Low Self-Esteem, but Maka thrives. Wrangling her down for bedtime becomes impossible because she's glued to her office. Even when Soul bribes her into going home with promises of back rubs, she still curls up with her sketchbook, designing her own clothes until she dozes off five minutes before her alarm is set to ring. Soul's concern for her health grows when she crankily refuses to nap.

"You're going to give yourself an aneurysm," Soul scolds her after the fourth night of pulling all nighters. "It's not normal to work so much."

"I want to make sure Marie has all the help she can get," Maka explains, buttoning up her peacoat. In the back of his mind, Soul worries about Maka slipping on the snow-covered ice, especially in her severely sleep deprived state, but it's not as if Maka's boots couldn't handle some slippery surfaces. They're practically hiking boots.

He worries too much.

* * *

Hell breaks out when it's least expected.

"Soul!" A horrified looking Kim sprints up to him outside of Mjolnir Strikes less than a week later. Soul sticks his arms out, ready to block an attack. "Stop doing that, I'm not going to hurt you! Look, just – just get Maka away from any TV's or newspapers or social media for a few days, okay?"

"Why?"

Something like fear crosses her face. "Well… Maka found out about the interview. And guess who Shaula just _had_ to mention?"

Soul's not sure how to react. Maka's animosity toward Shaula surpasses the Gorgon sisters' hatred for each other. He imagines the worst. Slandering Spirit Albarn, who is alive and well, probably with his tongue in someone's mouth, is forgivable, but smearing Maka Albarn's name is fuckery no god can forgive.

What did Shaula _do_?

"What does the article say?"

"Oh, besides briefly trying to talk to Marie about her recent line, nothing good. You should know from experience."

Soul gives her a dirty look. "Tell me. I need details."

The sass earns him an eye roll. "Please Soul, get it together. Read some magazines, okay? That's your homework - to stay on top of celebrity gossip. Anyway, Shaula dragged Maka into it. She and Marie spent most of the interview fighting."

 _No_. "Tell me you're lying."

She's opening her mouth when Maka, visibly quivering from indignation, stomps up and jumps on him, almost knocking him off his feet. "I'm having the most terrible day - do you remember I told you that sometimes I help Marie out? Well." She looks guilty, so guilty, but she has her arms around his neck, how is Soul not supposed to think about kissing? "Well… I've been designing more of Marie's stuff - just the little stuff! Like scarves and whatnot. Marie doesn't mind."

"Right, you told me." Distractions, distractions. Focusing is difficult when he could close the gap between them by tilting his head down.

"It's not like Marie was taking credit for it," Kim interjects, seeing his confusion and thrusting the magazine at him. "Read."

Soul isn't sure if Maka realizes she is digging her fingers into his shoulders. "Anyways, Shaula found out about it somehow, and she's trying to make it seem like I'm taking over Mjolnir Strikes. Like I'm some sort of spoiled brat because of my parents!"

It's four pages long.

 _Fuck_.

Skimming it is a special kind of torture, one that involves reading blatant lies. Maka, a talentless opportunist? Taking advantage of Marie? Flirting with the models for personal gain (ouch)?

 _The apple doesn't fall far from the tree_ , Shaula wrote.

Red is all Soul sees. Rage.

"Basically, Shaula argues with Marie the entire time about Maka," Kim tells him. "It really is awful. Marie tried changing the subject back to her clothes but they ended up calling each other names."

"I hate her _so so so much_ ," Maka hisses, clenching her jaw. "I can't believe I read that with my own two eyes!"

"Marie was about ready to punch her. She should have. Shaula really needs to stick to gossiping about musicians and actors," Kim shakes her head, proud.

"She just needs to stop," Soul says impassively, remembering how much Shaula's article summarizing Juilliard kicking him out on his ass murdered any dignity that had withstood the dishonor of expulsion. Even though Wes' musician friends had been decent enough not to whisper about the fiasco in front of him, the snobbish crew Soul's parents hang around didn't have the same discretion. A lady with ugly eyebrows had cornered him against a bookcase at a dinner party, saying that Beethoven's spirit would return to damn him.

"' _Maka continues to ride the coattails of her has-been parents' careers_ '," she quotes, each emphasis sharper than a needle. Grinding her teeth together, angry as fuck, she looks ready to spear someone. "One of us is going to have a name on a gravestone soon, and it's not going to be me!"

He almost feels sorry for Shaula Gorgon.

* * *

Despite the damning article, Maka's designs attract attention.

Marie defends all of the company's actions with grace and flawless wit. "Of course I allowed Maka to pitch in ideas to my designs - she is an up and coming designer, and I've loved having her as an intern." It's a lie, because she was never officially an intern, but it offers an easy fix to a potentially disastrous situation.

The fiasco catapults Maka's designs into the spotlight.

Her upswing to fame in the fashion industry escalates from being recognized as the girl from the Mjlinor Strikes editorial to being offered designing positions in renowned companies. Once various designers approach her via social media, some going as far as digging up her phone number to speak with her personally, she sets up a website to display her work.

Her excitement is infectious, and she goes into overdrive to see her dreams become a reality.

Self-care activities like sleeping and brushing her hair are cast aside for traveling with Kim to meet clients. Soon the demand grows too big and Maka has to expand, hiring an eager assistant named Tsugumi. _Meister_ is the alias she picks for herself, detaching herself from the Albarn surname in the hopes of building a separate reputation, one unassociated with her papa.

Meanwhile, it's not that Soul and Maka drift apart. It's that her passion consumes her, slowly.

While he continues to sleep over more often than not, she is a frazzled mess, balancing her own rapidly blooming company while still assisting Marie. Kissing her forehead to alleviate some of her restlessness seems like it could do the trick, but would she be okay with that? She is his best friend, and the less they see each other, the more he feels her absence.

Soul has no concept of time after she tells him she's thinking of moving to California for her career. There's another up-and-coming designer, Tsubaki, that she's been communicating with, who is "really sweet and so talented," to quote Maka. They've been talking about partnering up and launching their own line.

Desensitized, he thinks he's a shit for not wanting her to leave. Of course he should have seen it coming - Wes had left, too, after all. People fated for excellence have no business being anchored down. But he doesn't want to feel like his time with Maka is ending, especially when she is more elated than ever. She glows, and he likes feeling her laugh when he presses his lips to her cheek.

Maka, even with plum colored half-circles underneath her eyes, smiles genuinely whenever he shows up with takeout dinner, because he know she won't eat otherwise. "I'm going to stay a little bit longer and catch up on some work Marie hasn't gotten around to doing yet," she says more often than not. "And then I have to reply to some emails."

 _Don't stay up too late_ buds on the tip of his tongue, but a quick scan of the office - a cup of coffee, packets of sugar, stacks of documents, and what looks like a newly printed checklist - makes it obvious that his words would fall on deaf ears.

* * *

When courage fills him, he confesses to Maka that he would follow her anywhere. She beams.

* * *

A migraine takes him out of commission for three days. She tucks him in and kisses his brow. Her lips are fire.

 _Oh._

* * *

Thoughts about Maka won't let him sleep.

* * *

"What's your name?"

"Soul."

Soul Evans: Master at Mediocrity, Emperor of Regret. He resides at 0 Fucks Lane, I h8 Everything Nation, Delete Me From The Universe. Like the last domino in a setup after the other model hopefuls had been dismissed, Soul stands before the owner of Yummi Designs, feeling like a bug caught in a glass jar. The website and its clothing give off a carefree young adult vibe, and Azusa - well, she doesn't. Her eyeglasses and charcoal grey pantsuit remind Soul of a strict librarian.

Azusa beckons for him to bend down, stepping closer. "Is this your natural color?"

It takes all of his willpower not to push the designer away for invading his personal space. Is this harassment? "Yes."

"Hmm. Can I touch it?"

She inches closer to comb through his hair with the flat end of her pen.

"And your eyes are really red?"

"Yeah."

"And you were the model on the editorial for Mjolnir Strikes?"

For the first time, he's overjoyed at being recognized. Everything seems to be falling into place. "Yeah."

She thinks for a moment. "Okay, you're hired."

If everything were this easy, Soul would believe in himself more.

* * *

In retrospect, they should have backtracked when the hotel clerk told them the heater in their room was busted. No amount of blankets can combat below-freezing temperatures. Bundling up and sharing the small loveseat had been Maka's idea, since the bed is pushed up against a drafty window. She's practically in his lap, shivering. His face and toes are numb - he shouldn't be this happy, but he is, and he's warm and at home.

"Tell me again," a sleep drunk, pigtailed Maka pleas, face aglow. They are more lively at two-thirty in the morning, their bellies full, the stresses of the day temporarily sidelined. Nothing exists but this moment. It feels like he's been awake for thousands of years, felt too much, and seen enough; his reward for enduring such torment is undivided attention from a snuggly stylist.

"I thought my grandma was going to fake having a heart attack just to get away," he recounts, ashamed.

Shifting, pulling the blanket around her shoulders, Maka shakes her head. "Tell it from the beginning!"

"You're so immature," he complains, but is unable to resist smiling. Her giddiness is intoxicating. "Okay, my grandma threw this party for everyone in her symphony, right? She was a conductor. It was a grown up party, so I wasn't allowed to be there, and Wes had to take care of me. I was like six, and he was sixteen or seventeen. He was learning to play the guitar, so he decided to entertain me by playing a song."

"He is such a good brother," she praises, smooshing Soul's cheeks as an exaggerated pout contorts his face. No jealousy clouds the moment - Maka is playing with his hair and everything is right in the world.

"And one of his strings broke, right?" she prompts, flicking his nose. "And Wes told you to get him another one. Which one? Which string broke?"

"The G-string."

Maka falls into a fit of giggles. "You were so innocent and pure."

"How was I supposed to know it had a double meaning? When I was older I realized I should have died from embarrassment, but back then I didn't know how wrong that sounded. That stupid g-sting incident is the most cliche thing to ever happen to me."

"But you couldn't find the extra strings," she continues where he left off. This is probably the two hundredth time he's told her this story, and sometimes he thinks she knows it better than he does. "So you yelled down the staircase to ask your grandmother."

He sighs heavily. "Poor thing, she suffered so much. I didn't mean to dishonor our family. No wonder this is my first memory! It's been haunting me for years."

Maka's grin is somehow more captivating up close. She radiates self-confidence, even when she's had five minutes of rest and is battling hypothermia. "You were so adorable. ' _Grandmaaaa, Wes broke his g-string! Where do you keep yours'?_ "

"I'm going to die thinking about this," he groans. "I should have just shut up when she gave me that look like she was going to put me up for adoption. I'm such an idiot."

She wiggles to wrap an arm around around his shoulders, nose almost bumping his. "It's okay, it's cute."

And Soul shudders. He can't help but thaw a little.

"I love your face," she murmurs, fascinated. It's so soft, he barely hears it.

He wants to say that he loves her face, too, and her hands, and her always-crinkled eyebrows, and the way she sleeps on her side, never moving. Words stick to his throat. There is something intangible about his feelings towards Maka, something too deep. It paralyzes him. He's afraid he'll never get enough Maka to alleviate the need to learn everything about her.

She traces his eyebrows using the lightest of touches. Hazily, the idea manifests in his mind that he is one of those fragile contents under pressure, intended to break. But the thought dissipates like smoke the more she touches him. She is strong, intelligent, and she makes his heart flutter and his belly flip; he is very sick, very infatuated.

Placing gentle, delicate kisses on the corner of his mouth - his chin, his cheek, his lone dimple, oh _fuck_ \- evokes a sigh. Soul had never understood the hype about kissing until now, as he's burning up, eager for Maka to find his lips. They're still save for their chests rising and falling. He could wait forever for Maka, he decides - how could he not?

Chapped lips graze his. Chills that have nothing to do with the heater being broken and everything to do with slender fingers ghosting down his sides shake him to his very core. She sighs in between slow, lazy kisses, their teeth clashing awkwardly, her hands pausing at his every tremble. She's _cold,_ the air is _cold,_ but he braves the iciness and the pining to hold her, thinking he can understand Maka better by allowing her to take the lead.

The urge to undo her pigtails and peck softly at her throat makes him _ache_ deeper than his skin.

 _Fuck_ , he really likes this closeness. Feeling like he hasn't exhaled since he met her, he lets out a long, wobbly breath.

Maka yelps, jumping back a little, eyes wide. The spell isn't broken just yet - she is flustered, tinged pink, and it's his goal in life to kiss her everyday.

"I - I'm so sorry. I didn't ask if it was okay to do that," she laments, scandalized.

All he can do is stare. Of course Maka interrupted the tender moment because she's worried about comfort and doing things the right way. She's barely breathing. He licks his lips. "Ask me, then."

"Okay." She clears her throat. "May I kiss you?"

His response is a grin and a pat on the head. "No."

She tugs his earlobe playfully. "Soul Evans, you are insufferable." Biting her lower lip, she studies him as he laughs, pressing their foreheads together. Her voice is small, shy, and hopeful: "So, do you want to kiss more?"

Light-headed from deprivation of smooches, he would be a fool to reject such a proposal. "Kiss me all you want, Maka Albarn."


	5. a feeling at my fingertips

Face planted among meticulously colored skirt sketches, the deathgrip she keeps on the red felt-tipped pen even while conked out is admirable. Regardless of how much force Soul garners to detach her from it, nothing gives. She is a statue. Head pillowed by her forearm, she's slumped over her untidy, coffee-mug plagued desk, muffled snores indicating that she has not yet overworked herself into an early grave.

All Soul can do is gape, nailed to the floor in astonishment. The mighty one has fallen, and this is why she never arrived home, where Soul waited with dinner. All evidence implies that she fell asleep overnight, sometime between outlining and reaching for her phone. Picking up a pencil to prod her would generate rampant laughter if he were not so clouded by a hideous swath of concerned frustration.

She doesn't move.

"Maka," he whispers, gently shaking her. "Hey, wake up."

Nothing.

"Get up, fashion nerd!" he tries again, louder. "You're drooling."

There is a small twitch and a mumble: "I dun drool…"

"You spilled your coffee on everything! Don't make the same mistake you made when you worked with Arachne."

This temporarily snaps Maka awake. Frantic, she straightens her back, squealing, clutching the nearest sketch like a lifeline. Upon seeing that no brown stains mar the white-pen-on-brown-paper piece she blindly grabbed to protect, her narrowed eyes flit over to him.

"Not funny," she drones before crashing again.

"What's not funny is breaking into Mjolnir Strikes at four in the morning because I was worried about you," he retorts too quickly, too cuttingly. Someday he will learn to decipher what he feels before speaking, but not today.

She replies with sluggish irritation. "Don't joke about Arachne firing me."

He is nothing if not sharp-tongued and ruthless in his own defense, but attacking her while she's clearly disheveled and at the edge of a meltdown would be immoral. He would never hurt her. "Sorry… I was just worried. Why didn't you come home? Are you okay?"

"I was just so sleepy," she weeps into her hands. It's terrible – it's like witnessing a tree uprooted during a merciless windstorm. This is her breaking point, her threshold for spine-grueling stress. "I'm so tired. There was so much to do and I just couldn't move."

Well acquainted with the type of fatigue that petrifies the muscles and stifles the mind, Soul asks if he can touch her – can he rub her shoulders a bit? Would it help?

Nodding, she sighs at his touch, mollified. There is something otherworldly about being able to feel her breathing, her muscles relaxing beneath her skin, to feel her warmth through the maroon long-sleeved shirt. It reminds him that he is real, he is _here,_ as is she, and it's a miracle to confide in one another because distance is both of their defense mechanisms.

So many trigger points cover the nape of her neck that Soul cuts the massage short, deciding she needs a blanket and eight hours of uninterrupted rest.

"Hey Maka," he singsongs, patting her. "Wake up."

Scraping back her chair only to fall over, inertly clutching the front of his jacket for support, she closes her eyes. "Lemme sleep."

"That's where we're going. Home. So you can sleep."

She is relieved. "You too?"

"'Course."

"But you're mad at me," she laments, as if the fact itself maims her.

"There'll be plenty of time to yell at you later," he replies. Right now, any of his reproaches would go unheard. "First, we need to get you home."

"I had a dream that all my teeth fell out," she says dazedly, limp in his arms. Dragging her all the way to bed is the only solution he can conjure. Sleepiness has stolen all of her coordination – there is no way she will be able to travel a single step, much less the three miles to Joe's Inn. "Are they still there? My teeth?"

Hoisting her up proves challenging when she's providing next to zero help. He has a vision of waking up with a sore back tomorrow, if he can salvage enough snoozing time. "I think you still have some, yes."

Lethargic fingers dig into her mouth, scraping across white teeth. Tugging down her lip, she flashes her pink gums at him. "Thew're shtill heer!"

"Congratulations," he says, struggling to balance while she flails around aimlessly. "Hold on to me, okay?"

But she can't. Weak, slack grips do not help. Stuffing her arms into her coat is like dressing a doll, and by the time Soul stuffs his beanie on her head, he dreams about how much easier this would be if he had a wagon to aid the effort.

"Maka, listen. Climb on my back so we can leave."

Any coherence she possesses dissolves as soon as she hooks her legs around his waist, chin tucked on his shoulder. She passes out the millisecond he secures a hand around the back of her knee. A sore back is a guarantee at this point, but at least he can snuggle beside Maka and hope she's dreaming when they get home.

Three blocks from the Inn, Maka stirs back to life.

"…So soft," she sighs. Nuzzling her nose in his hair should be taken as a high compliment.

"Not cool," he grouses, but a pleasant shiver trickles down his limbs.

Rubbing her cheek on him, she hums sweet nothings: that she loves his affinity for jackets, his deep voice, and she is so _so_ _sorry_ for forgetting their dinner plans. Even in the nearly five A.M deserted street, he glances around, self-conscious because of the extreme (but treasured) PDA combined with the equally cherished unapologetic flirting.

"You owe me two piggyback rides," he tells her.

A kiss behind the ear is her succinct reply.

Shuffling inside clumsily, the door almost whacking down to the shabby carpet, they are greeted by Joe targeting an inquiring look at them.

"Is she sick?" he asks, rising from his stool.

"She's overdue for some sleep," Soul explains, reaching out for the elevator's up button.

"I told her coffee couldn't replace rest."

The divorce between Joe and Marie did not hamper either of their relationships with Maka. Although his interactions with Joe have been limited to friendly nods on his way to see Maka, Soul is glad he's not the only one looking out for her.

By the time Soul kicks her door open, a layer of cold air cloaks the room, Maka blearily complaining about her toes freezing. Tears finally let loose as he tucks her in, accompanying splutters of frenzied ramblings about meeting deadlines. Seeing her breakdown as a result of self-set high expectations isn't just cringe worthy – it summons a parade of ugly emotions: inadequacy, hopelessness, crumpling under the pressure of greatness.

 _Snap_ go the strings that keep his battered heart afloat.

Maka was right. They _do_ have a lot in common, not all of them good things. Visions of failing afflict both of them, and this must be why Soul's chest heaves and collapses in on itself along with hers, why he softly cracks too.

"It's gonna be okay," he chants lowly, feeling useless, unable to comfort her. She's confined to her own misery, drowning somewhere beneath her skin, somewhere Soul can't reach. Burying his face in the crook of her neck and rocking back and forth seems so ineffective. Too many barriers stand between their souls. They need to be _closer_. Slipping a hand underneath the hem of his shirt and clawing at his back is the best Maka can do to connect them.

Is there no way for him to protect her from herself?

Empathy pain. Soul knows all too well the sting of self-doubt. Debilitating, biting, piercing thoughts that convince the mind of guaranteed inadequacy. From his perspective, having a firsthand account of all her remarkable accomplishments, it vexes him that she could be intimidated by the threat of failure. She is nothing if not talented, destined for triumph. He's not here to invalidate her feelings, though – he's here to sway and hold her, so the feeling of loneliness isn't so overwhelming.

All he can do is hold her.

"Thirsty," she hiccups when she is sedated by wooziness. It's a sign of their familiarity that complete sentences aren't necessary for Soul to understand what she means. Emotional exhaustion reaps a toll on the body. "Need coff…ee."

A sound between a snort and a sneeze prickles his nose. "You need _water_ , dorkling," he corrects lightly, uncapping a bottle and bringing it to her mouth, which she slaps away with a strength he didn't know sleep deprived stylists could gather. Frustration rings in his ears like a shrieking siren, and for a few seconds he doesn't register that she is soaked.

Like a child, cranky and bordering on a tantrum due to skipping a few naps, she folds her arms. Soul had imagined a small argument might ensue when he had marched over to haul her away from the office, but dealing with a determined, feisty Maka Albarn inspires terror and a little admiration.

She needs to take it down a notch or five, and he needs to step up his game.

Funny how they balance each other out.

Focusing on the the issue of water flying everywhere when she knocked the bottle away, Soul inwardly debates how uncomfortable Maka would be wearing a completely soaked shirt. She slips off her boots, exchanging her pink kitty socks for fuzzy ones, griping about the spilled water. But Soul thinks it over - she should be fine sleeping in a wet shirt, right? She won't get sick from sleeping in a wet shirt. The heat from the furnace should keep her warm, in addition to the comforters and blankets he's going to throw over her.

"I wanna change," she pouts.

"'Kay. Uhm, I'll be over here," he says, backing away to give her privacy. "Actually, I'll go in the hallway."

Not even ten seconds pass when she summons him via screams.

He speaks through the small crack in the door: "What's up?"

"I'M STUCK IN MY SLEEVE!"

"Good, go to bed."

"HELP!"

"Just yank it off."

"How?"

"With your hands."

She shrieks.

On a scale from 0 to 10, how much does this whole situation suck? "Fine."

Squeezing his eyes shut, he ventures forth. He only stumbles a few times over the potted plants her papa has gifted, as if it's his way of sending a warning. But Soul would never disrespect Maka. Being asked to take off her shirt is not an invitation to her body.

"I'm going to open my eyes, okay?"

" _Hurry_! So tired."

She's nothing short of a mess. Tufts of blonde hair stick out of the sleeping gown's sleeve she was trying to change into. He doesn't bothering trying to ask _how the hell_ she got her big head in there, deciding he needs to sit down and suck in air because she looks so ridiculous. His laughter induces irritated grunts from her but he is suddenly so fucking sleepy. HAe doesn't want to be awake anymore - he wants to sleep beside Maka. The night has been a wild ride, an emotional and physical seesaw.

"I just wanna _sleep_ ," Maka moans, punching her pajama-tent.

"Lift your arms up," he says, turning to her. Once he figures out where her arms are, he warns her that he's going to shut his eyes again and yanks her gown off. Freed, he hears her fumble around wearily, narrating the current saga of "I don't know how to put this on." Soul could literally fall asleep where he stands, but first, he must make sure Maka sleeps comfortably.

"Okay, I'm dressed," she announces.

"Uhm… It's on backwards."

But Maka doesn't care, lowering herself immediately beneath the blankets and new sheets Soul places. He sits by her side, a sentry.

Groggily, she mumbles, "How many kisses does it take to buy your forgiveness?"

"For what?"

"Making you worry." Eyelids half-closed and tangled hair strewn over floral patterned pillow cases, she looks _sick_ , the kind that no amount of relaxation can cure. Worries about the state of her mental health harass Soul, who is quick to link the pressure of succeeding with the onset of a depressive episode.

"Don't mention it. Go to sleep."

Persistence is Maka's expertise. "But how many kisses? Two? Forty?"

He pulls the covers up to her chin. "We'll talk about that later."

"Promise?"

"Hmm, yeah."

Her voice is no louder than a sigh. "Stay?"

"I'm here," he reassures, brushing back rebellious bangs.

"Don't be mad…"

Anger is not what lightningbolts through his chest when he plants a fleeting peck on her forehead. What sears the feel of her skin to his lips is the ethereal warmth flourishing in his chest where he thought nothing could grow. Sometimes he counts the soft spots he has for Maka Albarn and doesn't know what to do with himself. Caring about someone _so much_ doesn't lessen the weight of nothingness in his bones, but it grants him courage.

* * *

Soul wakes to green, green eyes peering at him through faint lashes. She glows, revitalized, palms splayed open across his chest. Her hair is a curtain of gold hanging around her face, its ends grazing his chin, tickling.

Soul is smitten, and it's incurable.

"Morning!"

"Ugh," he says, stretching. Cuteness overload prompts him to try to escape.

Maka rolls over, pinning him down. _Damn_. "How many kisses do I owe you?"

Figures she wouldn't forget.

"Too many," he grunts, willing himself to remember the lecture he had planned. The main topics included taking better care of herself, resting… something like that.

She gives him _the look_ that precedes gentle pecks and roaming hands, and his lips buzz in anticipation. Their track record of kissing episodes has consisted of unhurried, exploring grazing and ephemeral smooches. After twenty-four, he had lost count – does a dimple caress count? What about when he misses and ends up brushing her chin? His attempts at liplocking are laughable at best, but Maka's patience is on par with that of a goddess.

He just gets so _nervous_.

Like right now.

Sensing his unrest, she presses her forehead against his. "I'm so sorry I fell asleep at work. And the shirt thing - oh my gosh. I can't believe that happened. I'm so embarrassed."

"Don't worry, I didn't see anything," he soothes.

"But still. I was so sleep drunk and put you in such an awkward position."

A more perfect opportunity to begin the intervention couldn't appear. "You need to rest more."

She poises her hands on his shoulders, fingers brushing the hair closest to the nape of his neck. "I'll take up my ten o'clock bedtime, just like you suggested."

"Seriously, Maka," he insists. "You're overworking yourself."

"I don't think so." Maybe it's the sequence of events, but Maka shifting off the bed and toward the desk where she keeps her hairbrush seems punitive.

"I'm not telling you what to do," he clarifies. Suddenly hyper aware of himself (is he sitting weirdly? Is he blinking too much?), he decides to press forward despite the negative reaction it might provoke. "You're so stressed lately, and it's not good for you."

"I'm fine, just fine. Want to brush my hair?"

 _Everything is fine… just fine_. Those are the exact words he would recite to himself when the exact opposite was happening.

No other privilege surpasses the one of touching her. Her hair is so soft – how is it possible that she puts in so little effort into her looks, and yet is adorably charming?

 _Be brave_ , Soul tells himself. "So…"

But she is two steps ahead of him. "I'll take the weekend off. How's that? Take me somewhere nice."

It still doesn't address the issue of her tendency to overwork and lose herself in a project, but the proposition pushes the issue away.

"I'm so excited for our date," she hums, and his whole being must have been built to react to her, because his fingertips tingle. " _Dorkling_."

Maka knows all and never forgets anything he says.

* * *

Along with the exhilaration of hand-holding in public comes fretfulness. They're going to hold hands _in public_. In front of people. It's not like they haven't before, but it's under a different context now. Everyone's going to know about his everlasting crush on Maka. What if she tries to kiss him? How many years of chops will he earn if he tries to block her with a hand in her face?

He's never been good at math, so he stops trying to calculate it.

What worries him the most is that he hasn't filled out an application to be her boyfriend. Google provides some semi-serious templates, but Soul needs a real one. There should be laws. Legal forms. Something tangible, because he doesn't want to fuck up.

Jackie catches him snarling at his phone. She's a speed reader and he can't put it away fast enough.

"You're such an idiot," she cackles, doubled over. "Please tell me you aren't being serious."

"Only a little bit," he admits. "I'm just nervous, okay?"

"I can't believe you're actually talking about your feelings," she muses, holding her stomach while plopping herself on the couch across from Soul. They've been hanging around Kilik's apartment, each minding their own business. For him, that involves panicking about his date while Jackie writes an article detailing her latest extreme couponing quest.

"Go away," he begs.

"Are you really going on a date? With that girl from the editorial? You can't keep her away from us forever, you know."

"If you want to stay, please help me figure out this dating shit."

Best friends recognize the true meaning behind statements like this. It's Soul's way of crying for help while revealing as little as possible. He values privacy above all else. But then again, confiding in Jackie is also a huge, irreversible mistake. She's never been much of a talker, aside from snarky commentary, but she goes _on and on and on_ about 'cute date' plans, all ranging from moonlight picnics to tango dancing lessons.

At least he gets an idea, though.

"You're so mushy," he accuses her, smirking. He wants the best for Jackie, and he's sure whoever she dates will be a very lucky girl.

"I am _not,_ " she retorts. Appalled at such an allegation, she threatens to stop brainstorming with him.

"Fine."

"Suit yourself. Just don't thank her when she kisses you, like some sort of loser."

 _Too late_ , he wants to say, but holds his tongue.

* * *

Maka waits for him outside of Mjolnir Strikes the next day, scarf tied around her ears, legging-clad legs trembling in the gusting, bitter wind. She skips to meet him halfway, daring to remove her mittened hands from her coat pockets to smoosh his face, laughing about his red cheeks.

"You're always so cold, holy shit." It seems that whenever Maka touches him, he shivers.

"Is that your way of telling me I'm hot?"

"That would be a dumb pickup line," he teases.

"But you didn't answer my question," she reminds, bashfully.

"Uhm…" What are words? Battling nervousness, he holds the sides of her head, well aware of his subpar flirting skills. "I have some sort of weird attachment to you."

She breaks out in a dazzling smile that shows she understands.

Joined at the hands, they traipse through freshly fallen snow, Soul making them stop to flick snowflakes off her lashes. Maka wrinkles her nose and blows a raspberry at him each time. They're not attacking her, okay, she swears. She won't be blinded, and if she is, he's there to hold her hand and lead the way.

If Soul were any smoother he'd supply a suave comment, but he just scowls.

"Where are you taking me, Soul?"

"It's a secret."

Teeth chattering, she adds, "Wherever it is, I hope it's inside."

The old, homey coffee shop slash bookstore had stood out to him as the perfect location to show Maka, who has yet to explore the city. But each step toward it feels like a mistake – cliché, predictable, and simple.

He redirects them wordlessly, and she's more than stunned when they arrive. "A Build-a-Bun?"

"A Build-a-Bun," Soul confirms, and turns up the sarcasm: "More dumb fluffs for my nerd." It's executed flawlessly, but the words still induce a fever-like blush to scorch his face. Maka cheers and runs into the store, dragging him along. He decides to never utter anything like that again, even if he is a centimeter away from death. He'll stick with sarcasm to convey his affection, thanks.

All colors of stuffed bunnies imaginable line the wall, and the accessories are just ridiculous. Helmets, hats, watches, kites, wagons – it's all there. He watches Maka stand in the middle of the store, greedily eyeing everything.

"There are so many cute outfits!"

The need to salvage his cool card kicks in. "Don't be a nerd."

She motions for him to grab a bun. "You make one, too."

Soul doubts that feigning an injury in a store literally covered in soft things would trick Maka into believing he's injured and requires medical attention immediately. Why did he bring her here again?

Standing on her tippy toes, she plants a quick smooch on his dimple before plucking a long-eared, charcoal grey bunny off the shelf.

Right.

Hesitant but motivated by kisses, he finds himself holding a white bunny, one with a wide smile and cheery eyes. Trailing behind Maka and following her lead is the safest bet, looking over each time she adds something new to the grumpy faced animal. He adorns his with a halo and a scythe.

"It's you!" Pride shines in her voice. Soul's heart melts for the billionth time. Never mind the pink bow he'd never wear. That's actually an accurate depiction of his resting bitch face. He's a little touched and overly entertained.

"This is for you," he mutters, half-throwing it at her.

"It's an _angel_ ," she wails, attracting the attention of nearby customers. Maybe he should have given it to her in a less crowded area – not only do a few onlookers continue to stare, but one says loudly, "Weren't they in that one magazine?"

Another sours the moment by citing one of Shaula Gorgon's articles, pre-modeling era.

 _Damnit_.

Maka is oblivious. "Wait – what's the scythe for?"

"Because you're not exactly an angel," he says, guiding her to the register.

The clerk looks between Soul and Maka. "Do I know you guys from somewhere?"

"No," is Soul's curt reply, swiping his card and steering Maka out of there before more people crowd them.

Thankfully, their date is salvaged. He shuffles them to the diner, and she slides into the booth with him, poking his dimple and tugging at his reddening ears.

"You're so sweet, Soul."

"Tell me I'm tough and manly."

"You're a smush and a shy sweetheart."

Compliments are hard to accept, even when they come attached with wide smiles. The waiter eyes Maka and Soul scowls, but it's instantly subdued as she presses her mouth to his lone dimple.

The things he does to earn kisses are ludicrous. The Angel Demon Bun earns him two kisses. _Two_. In the back of his mind, he begins the tally for the fourth time. Is it normal for him to crave more?

Her bell chime ringtone interrupts their snuggling. Soul had even marshalled enough courage to place his hand on her shoulder. Maka excuses herself to answer it, skiping inside three minutes later and not bothering to scold him for devouring all the fries.

"Ahh – that was Tsubaki! She wants to meet up sooner!"

A pessimistic voice in his head rasps that all good must end.

Maka details her plans to him all the way to the Inn. Two weeks apart sounds unbearable to Soul, who already misses her so much, even when she's in town.

But he can deal with it, he thinks. She is built for greatness.

Back at Kilik's apartment, Soul slinks off to the balcony and slumps into a lounge chair, thankful for the numbing wind. Whenever the high recedes, it leaves him even emptier than before…. barren. It's not even midnight yet, and dark four am thoughts are already creeping to the forefront, muttering to him that a screw up is in his immediate future.

Happiness is a finicky thing. Paranoia has been a better companion to him.

What's that saying?

Nothing gold can stay?

* * *

A group of teenagers trail him on the subway. He circles the same block four times and finds refuge in a skyrise elevator.

UGH.

* * *

The gum bubble expands swiftly until it pops with a showy snap, and Soul recoils.

Liz Thompson, snickering, winks at him. Dark blue eyes twinkle roguishly. "Easily scared, huh?"

"No," he snaps.

"Lighten up. Do you ever smile?"

"Do you ever not chew like an animal?"

Whistling is her response. She blows another massive bubble. This time he doesn't flinch. "This is going to be fun."

Repressing a groan is all he can do. Three minutes into talking to the co-model for Yummi Designs and their personalities already clash horrendously. Liz teems with confidence, shoulders pulled back and head held high, while Soul slouches. It's less humpback-ish than what it used to be thanks to a core training program devised by Black*Star, but a comparison to the blonde makes him think twice about his posture.

"You were smiling in that editorial you were in," she is saying, brows waggling.

The number of times complete strangers have mentioned the spread never stops fazing him. Its instant success is the reason modeling has worked for him, and he definitely is grateful because he met Maka thanks to Mjolnir Strikes, but the attention associated with fame doesn't mesh with his introverted nature. Why can't he have both things?

"Is what Shaula Gorgon says true? Are you and that Maka girl really eloping?"

Soul turns away. "Can we just get this over with?"

"Right. Business first, fun later," Liz agrees sarcastically.

The photographer is a silver haired, ageless man who squeaks out orders and gloats about the previous photoshoots he's done. Soul thinks he's full of shit because he can't keep the names straight. He rubs his eyes and someone in the small crowd cries out about smudged makeup.

"Sorry," he says, as the whole production pauses so the makeup artist can reapply concealer. The mantra he had written comes in handy: _I'm going to be okay, I'm going to be okay, I am enough, I am enough, mistakes aren't the end all, mistakes aren't the end all_.

"I bet you're not used to wearing all this gunk," the makeup artist laughs. "Just try not to touch your face. Or your hair or anything."

 _The lights are not hot_ , Soul tells himself when he returns, all eyes trained on him. Modeling with a partner is awkward, but while the companionship should ease his restlessness, he's still lowkey panicking. It's different than the ever consuming jitters - it's distant. Liz's smirking both irritates and soothes. She bats her inky eyelashes at him while Excalibur details how he wants them to pose. "Try not to look disgusted with me."

"What? It's not that, sorry."

Everything's happening too fast. At least this photoshoot is going better than the first one, mainly because the photographer can't focus: "AND THEN WE WENT TO GET ALL YOU CAN EAT SHRIMP FOR $4.99-"

"Like Tyra Banks, Soul," Liz urges him, grabbing his attention before jutting out her chest. "Like she said, 'Hoe, but make it fashion'."

Soul smirks. "I don't think I'll be taking her advice on that."

"Hey, look at that! You do have a cute smile. Mission accomplished."

Whether Liz has taken it upon herself to flirt with him for the sake of the photoshoot or if she genuinely has an interest is beyond him. But he only has eyes for a certain stylist with a penchant for Maka Chops, a quick temper, and a sweet face.

Liz seizes the opportunity and rests her elbow on his shoulder, turning on a smolder that counterbalances what he images to be an idiotic face.

Soul doesn't have to deal with the blonde with a slight Brooklyn accent for much longer. When he and Liz are separated to model their respective clothing, the stylists switch out his wardrobe fifteen times before he loses count and just lets things happen.

Red wool cardigan? Okay. A bomber hat and a vest? Sure. How many poses can be think of to model winter wear? Resting bitch face, activated. His friendship with Jackie has trained him for this career. No breakdowns, and the shoot goes seamlessly.

Redemption: accomplished.

Liz waits for him after the shoot, nudging him when he tries to circle around her.

"Have you ever met someone who you thought was really hot, but then you started talking to them and realized they're just a dork?"

Soul can't answer. Drowsy green eyes, bedtime pigtails, a confident walk, and warm lips define attraction to him. He's a walking contradiction - he's felt so much, but so little.

Liz doesn't wait for a reaction. "Well, you're that someone."

"Uh. Thanks?"

"Yeah, no problem." She winks. "Doesn't mean I won't stop trying to make you uncomfortable, though."

She reminds him of Jackie. Straightforward, dark humor built upon irony. But she also reminds him of Kilik - responsible, a go-getter fueled by the desire to succeed and better themselves. What is amazing to Soul is that he can see parts of people he cares about in others, when he couldn't even see himself.

* * *

Maka greets him at the door when he stumbles home, and Soul envisions a fluffy domestic scene: living together, the first one who gets home cooking a warm meal they can share. Can love be fatal? Because the warm feeling that swells in his chest when he's around Maka is permanent. He likes her too much and it's a problem for his health.

"I was bullied by the other model," he says, throwing himself on her bed. "My face hurts from fake smiling."

"Let me kiss it to make it feel better."

"Heal me, Albarn. I'm suffering."

* * *

"Move it," Kim demands, hand pushing away his face. "Read this."

Shaula Gorgon's writing has gained popularity the more she attacks Soul and Maka. She's featured in more magazines as a guest writer, and even appears on talk shows. To add diversity, she unearths a malpractice lawsuit against Stein, Marie's husband, and makes up sordid details Marie's divorce from Joe, which was actually amicable.

It's a shitshow, to say the least.

"She's trying to give Mjolnir Strikes a bad name." Kim taps her nails on the table, wedging herself between an aggravated, smooch-deprived Soul and a distressed Maka. She had barreled into the diner, armed with a tabloid that she had used to smack Soul 'and his gross nasty lips' away from her best friend.

"But Marie's never done anything to Shaula, right?"

"She must be conspiring with her sisters. _Duh_ , Soul. It's sabotage."

He locks eyes with Maka, who motions toward the exit. _YES._ More kissing to ensue. As of late, Kim has added disturbing their alone time to her list of hobbies. She smacks Soul upside the head whenever she catches them holding hands - which sums up to a current grand total of forty-two times. Ducking between her legs to escape when she corners him with the words 'safe sex' and 'do you know where the clitoris is?' has saved Soul from awkward conversations.

"Don't try to run away. I'm not done talking," Kim says. "I thought you wanted to punch her teeth in, Maka."

She sighs, deflating into the holey leather of the booth. "Yeah, but I also want to do other things."

Kim's face contorts, repulsed. "Sinners."

"Not like that!"

"Stay where I can see you." She turns to Soul. "We still need to set rules about you dating Maka. Rule one: no kissing between the hours of seven in the morning and six-fifty nine in the morning."

Maka balks. "But Kim, that only leaves one minute-"

"What I say is final!"

The hickies tattooed on his neck, hidden by his jacket, burn. Maka is a quick study, and has learned the art of kissing a little too quickly. "I'm not the one you should be worried about," he mumbles while the two bicker.

* * *

Icy fingers walk across his chest bone. Soul finds himself barricaded underneath a mountain of blankets with Maka Albarn teasingly prolonging their next kissing session. Night bloomed hours ago, but he is desperate to stay awake.

"I have to find your lips first," she maintains, dragging her fingers into the dip between his collarbones.

Soul wants to find her too, with his lips. When is it going to be his turn?

Skin, bones, and clothes divide them – this is the second time unfulfilled yearning engulfs Soul. Can two people ever really _know_ each other, soul and mind? He wants to touch her without using his hands. She certainly tries. He thinks about fragile things when she traces his cheeks in the dark, when they both know sleep won't lull him. Comfort is what she offers him – unconditional patience and acceptance.

It's an example of how he can be gentler with himself.

Soul feels too much, this is a fact. Too many memories and clips of sentences stick to him like lint. Strange things find ways of replaying in his mind, even years later. Things like the feel of piano keys, the sound of his brother's heavy trudging up the stairs when he got home a little too late, and metronomes.

How painfully empty and lonesome it felt to sit on a stage by himself with the knowledge that he would never be good enough.

Watching Jackie, Kilik, and Black*Star erupt in glee at dinner while he couldn't even string together three words, he was so exhausted.

Maka, and her chapped lips and mesmerizing walk.

But as much as he feels, he can't convey. It's all confined inside him, whirling, no words to express himself.

He has so much to say to Maka, but he is literally tongue-tied. Maybe it's the sleepdrunkness again. If he stays awake for too long he'll drown in sentimental thoughts.

It hurts so much to care for someone deeply. But it empowers instead of debilitates.

Maka tilts her head, lips grazing his cheek.

They're the opposite ends of magnets, calling for each other.

All moments are fleeting visitors. He's between dreaming about riding a motorcycle down an empty freeway and finally succumbing to sleep when Maka shifts away. Soul thinks nothing of it – she's probably going to get ready for bed, but then she hisses the name Shaula Gorgon like a venom that could kill on contact.

"That was fast," he sighs, cracking open an eyelid to see her staring at her phone. "I almost don't want to know."

Skeptical green eyes sweep across the screen. "Hmm. Apparently we're having a hot romantic affair, unbeknownst to Marie."

The question of whether employee relationships are frowned upon has bumped off his list of worries for more important matters. But he can't avoid the topic. What are they? "Does she have a problem with that? With us, I mean?"

"Marie is a total softie and believer in love. She would plan our wedding and fight my papa to walk me down the aisle," Maka says.

"Good to know."

* * *

"Little brother, tell me how you've been."

"Time zones, remember? It's like… noon here. I'm sleeping. Call me later?"

"So you're doing okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Wes. And you?"

"I'm excellent. I'm actually thinking of flying out there to see you-"

"Okay, but just warn me so I have time to prepare for a headache."

"Perfect."

* * *

Shaula Gorgon's presence looms in their lives like a noose.

Eventually, she catches word of his contract with Yummi designs and questions his qualifications to model. He's just a 'lazy rich kid' and 'is relying on others' fame to get him by in life. The criticism is unwarranted and vaguely wounding. He has no idea what Shaula has against him ("she just has a thorny twig up her ass," Black*Star explained wisely), but Soul rejects Jackie's offers to come to his aid.

Kilik agrees. Let the writing witch do what she wants. Don't add fuel to the fire.

It becomes apparent that her agenda is to trash talk both Soul and Maka's careers until they are tossed down the disposal. According to Shaula, Maka's only redeeming quality to her 'whorish appeal' is her expert skill at deceiving.

Everything Shaula writes reeks of misogyny. Maka boils. Soul froths at the mouth. Kim, who Soul grows to tolerate, sends anonymous hate mail and fights the writer through the internet. Arranging for her to meet Jackie is tempting.

Soul's next photoshoot for Mjolnir Strikes is scheduled. He doesn't have to prepare that much for it, aside from mentally hyping himself, but balancing the two gigs is a lot for his sometimes-foggy brain to handle. He's in a weird headspace. When Kim tells him that he's also set to appear on the runway, he doesn't even panic - come what may. Deciding to think about it later is his safest option.

Meanwhile, Maka's papa decides to reunite with his daughter after reading the tabloids. Papa to the rescue.

Walking into her office to see her papa cradling a bouquet of purple hyacinths had snapped what little survived of Maka's sanity. Shrieks had summoned a barely-showing Marie, the security guard, and an unnerved Kim, who, worried for her friend's emotional state, reported the incident to Soul via text. A one-sided argument had ensued. By the time Stein arrived to usher his bawling best friend to safety, puffing on a cigarette, Maka had cornered her papa, none of her resentments made clear but a lot of sharp words yelled.

Soul arrived in the aftermath, walking her home.

"What should I do?"

Maka slips into their little cocoon of blankets but doesn't snuggle up beside him, doesn't tuck her face in his neck, doesn't pick up her book of fairy tales. She sits up, legs folded, and stares ahead like she's visiting an old friend she's not sure she wants to see. Soul knows better than to touch her – she has voyaged far away, and even though she's so warm and so close to him, he fears snapping her out of much needed retrospect. Soul can't do anything, but at least he can support her quietly.

"How dare my papa just- just stalk me out of the blue like that? I haven't seen him since I went to boarding school. When I found out that the accident had been caused by their arguing over his cheating, I told him I never wanted to see him again. He's been annoying enough to always find out where I am, and he always sends me so many damn peace offerings, but he's never outright tried to _ambush_ me before!"

Beside him, Maka breathes shallowly. "What about Little Me back then? Why did he lie to me about the accident?"

So _that's_ the truth about the accident. Soul had suspected it was more complicated, but _this_...

The moment when sorrow unravels at the seams is always pure and quiet. Soul's heart bleeds for her. He closes his eyes because it _hurts_ to have a first-hand account of Maka meleeing with her demons. The mattress creaks as she shifts to lie down next to him. Face half-buried in a pillow, Soul peeks through white eyelashes at her.

Closure. Maka needs closure. She hasn't made space to grieve the loss of her mama or the end of her childhood. All she knows is work. Soul would fight tooth and nail if it meant helping Maka feel safe crying, if it meant accepting how her parents' relationship crumbled, if he could protect her from herself.

"What should I do? Should I go see him?"

It's not Soul's question to answer. "You can still love and miss someone and not forgive them. Does Grown Up Maka, the one right now, need him?"

She turns her head to look at him, as if seeing him for the first time. "I don't know. I think so? I pushed him away, you know… after she died. I left and tried to forget about everyone, even my mama."

There's a storm in her chest, and she shivers against its power. "But he hurt my mama, and he never told me why the accident happened. They were arguing about his affairs. He's an asshole. I had to find out through Stein at my twelfth birthday party."

All the air dissipates from the room when she speaks again, her voice shaky. "Should I meet him for dinner, like he asked?"

She pauses.

Soul is interested in nothing but softness and warmth, so he rolls over to lock a protective arm around her slowly, carefully, as she breaks with the smallest of sniffles, like fragile contents under pressure.

* * *

Back massages help relax Maka. So does neck nibbling.

* * *

Poking her in the ribs while she's deep in concentration elicits no response. Stunned that the crinkle between her brows doesn't flatten out and that her hands continue to move smoothly over the page of her sketchbook, he wonders how the hell someone this great likes him. The thought is probably a little negative and a lot self-condescending, but it truly is a blessing: Maka is light years above his league, starting off her own company, while he's barely picking himself up.

"Pay attention to me," he whines, frowning.

Maka swats his hand away, blowing a raspberry. "I need to finish this before my trip in two days."

The pessimist in Soul believes that this is some sort of omen. They're stuck in _What Are We? Purgatory_ because he's too chicken shit to ask what the good morning kisses and cuddling mean. He turns into a stammering, lovesick schoolboy at the thought.

Not that he disapproves of the prolonged contact.

"Be good while I'm gone." She flounces off the bed to tuck her sketchbag into her carry-on bag.

"Never," he jokes.

"Don't let Black*Star talk you into doing stupid things."

"I'm so glad you know him so well, even without actually meeting him."

Standing akimbo in front of him, hair mussed and face cemented into a vision of grimness, she is fierce. Both fear and admiration stun him into silence. "Seriously, Soul, behave yourself."

The air is thick. It occurs to Soul that they haven't spent more than a day apart at a time, that they're two strangers who met at stressful points of their lives. They've endured the test of acquainting themselves with the other's demons. All kinds of thoughts thunder through his mind. Does she trust him? Does she expect the worst from him?

But he remembers her papa, whose marriage ended tragically.

They both have boxes to unpack. They aren't done healing.

"Yeah, I'm going to make out with Jackie while you're gone," he deadpans finally, gasping when Maka pulls him down by the collar. He's made a mistake.

"I don't care if she's your best friend and likes girls," she warns, jabbing him on the forehead for good measure. "Don't joke like that."

Soul isn't sure how groveling and profusely repenting his sins earns him more hickies two hours later, but he must have unlocked a new level of maturity, because he doesn't complain.

He's going to miss her so much it stings in places he didn't know could hurt. And he's already hurt _so much_.


	6. ribs crack with the want to cry

Life isn't great sometimes.

Maka dedicates long hours to launching her line, on top of assisting at Mjlinor Strikes. Angry crying after Shaula publishes another brutal critique of her clothing helps her sleep at night. When she isn't designing, she's ignoring her papa's tireless texts. She doesn't know what to do about their broken relationship just yet.

Bad news arrives in the form of another ankle injury for Black*Star, who undergoes surgery to reconstruct ruptured tendons. He may not be able to return to boxing semi-professionally. Though he's headstrong in his denial, the reality is inevitable. When he misses their weekly Tuesday dinner, Soul just _knows_ the realization hit, and hard. They give him time. Accepting all that comes his way will be difficult.

The season change finally takes its toll on Jackie midwinter; she disappears much like Soul did, so he feeds her soup and constantly sends her memes via skype in hopes that she will laugh soon.

As the only one left standing, Kilik nurtures everyone, and even bakes Maka apple crisps despite never having met her. He's too smart and nosy for his own good, but Soul chooses not to question how he knows about the relationship.

He watches this from a distance, sort of, continuing to keep Maka secret. Usually he's the first one down. 'Helpless' and 'useless' are two words that describe how Soul feels thinking about his small group of friends disbanding. The modeling gig goes well, and more and more people recognize him, especially after a billboard with his face on it goes up near the mall. He's sort of proud; still, nothing really interests him. He hopes the boredom with life ends.

But he tries to live.

Mjolnir Strikes offers him a chance to walk the runway in a fashion show, and he takes it - why not?

Wes invites him to another award ceremony. He pretends to forget, guiltily; at least he answers his calls now.

Kilik, ever the steady worker, gets a raise at work.

"You're the only functional one out of all of us. What's it like being a real adult?" Soul asks him one day, on his way out the door to see Maka.

Honesty is the chef's forte. "It fucking sucks. Everyone's down and I can't seem to help."

* * *

"I think Shaula Gorgon put a curse on me because of what I said about her," Jackie mourns, usually sleek hair clumped and matted. She's curled up in her one-bedroom apartment, granola bar wrappers bordering her bed. Tissues spill over the trash can onto the floor, half-empty water bottles on her pillows.

Soul offers her his hand. "Get up, Jackie."

"I'm so scared." She's the type of person who holds her emotions close to her, bottles things up and puts on a brave face. So seeing her tear up and clutch her comforter like it's the only thing preventing her from being sucked up into the sky just cuts him. "The winter is always hard."

"I know, but you have to get your ass up," he comforts her. "Everything's going to be all right."

Five minutes later, Soul manages to coax her into sitting up to try the soup he cooked.

"It happened so fast," Jackie says, looking at the bowl but not seeing it. "I was doing great and then - bam! My mental health went downhill."

"It sneaks up on you, yeah." Shoving his hands in his jean pockets, he digs the toe of his shoe into the carpet, kicking at it, unsure what to do with himself. Maybe fear is contagious, because the ratio of good days to bad days have finally turned in his favor, but what if he's just setting himself up for a steeper fall?

He can't decide if keeping a mental checklist of positives is a step in the right direction. Landing a contract with Mjlinor Strikes definitely is one of the best thing that has happened to him - it forced him to redefine his comfort zone, test new waters, and paved a new path for his life. To say that his battery has been dangerously low is an understatement. But now, in less than half a year, he's made a complete 180 degree turn.

Soul is shit with words - how does he tell Jackie all this and not come off as changing the subject to himself? She probably already knows that it gets better, that dark headspaces are temporary, just like the healthy ones.

"We promised to stay whether we liked it or not, remember?"

Jackie squints at him, retrieving the memory of a conversation post-Juilliardgate, when they were in opposite roles. He never thought he'd be here this day, coaching someone else through their fog. "I guess I'll eat then," she says.

* * *

Maka sneaks out into the hallway sometime around one am the night before she leaves, whispering into her phone. Its ring in the thick of night jolts them awake like a fire alarm.

"Papa, what's wrong? Are you okay?" She's borderline hysterical with worry. Soul kicks his legs out of the covers, every nerve in his body roaring for him to fix everything, but he lays back down. He shouldn't interfere with healing.

"I'm going to come back, Papa. I'm not leaving forever… Don't cry. I'll miss you too… Yes, really."

This appeases Soul, who hides underneath his pillow.

It soothes Maka's papa too, because she slithers back to bed a few minutes later, murmuring to herself, "What am I going to do with him?"

To Soul, it sounds like she already knows. She can start to unpack, too.

* * *

"Don't be sad, Soul," she tells him, the light streaming through the airport window touching her eyelashes at just the right angle, giving them a glow. Whatever she says, dragging her suitcase across the terminal seems so final, especially after all the nonsense Shaula spewed. Careers and dreams should be first priority, not a relationship, but isn't she worried about the distance?

California stole Wes (actually, Soul was glad to be rid of him, but still) and now it's seducing Maka. While Soul wants nothing but the best for Maka, he's selfish. He wants to know when she's upset and be there when she's alone.

But he can't save anyone from themselves.

"We'll Skype, okay? On Friday. And we can talk about the fashion show."

* * *

Boredom. Soul misses Maka's stupid cat patterned pajamas.

* * *

[2:19:25 AM] Jackie: I'm like so proud of you? you got discovered? you literally are getting paid to look gr8? and now you're going to be walking on the runway? and you got a cute girlfriend?

[2:19:40 AM] Jackie: your suffering has paid off

[2:20:01 AM] soul: wow u rly are sick. how high is ur fever?

[2:20:39 AM] Jackie: I think I'm dying tbh

[2:20:47 AM] Jackie: "WOOOP THERE IT IS!" that's how depression goes

[2:20:54 AM] Jackie: and then I feel like I have the plague, on top of all this bullSHIT

[2:21:05 AM] Jackie: but this isn't about me, it's about you

[2:21:26 AM] Jackie: we're so proud of you! even BlackStar has your editorial framed

[2:23:01 AM] soul: fml i didnt think it would blow up like this.

[2:23:27 AM] Jackie: People love that love shit

[2:23:34 AM] Jackie: People love you and you totally deserve this fame

[2:23:43 AM] Jackie: You've been trying so hard, it's about time things looked better for you

[2:25:19 AM] soul: all i wantd was to make money to pay kilik back for lettng me live with him for free. i feel so shitty about that. and to shove it in my parents face that i wasn't a complete failure

[2:25:27 AM] soul: but now im getting all this weird attention and randos stalking me

[2:25:33 AM] soul: and shaula is talking shit about me again

[2:25:58 AM] soul: i just wanna love a lowkey life and not talk to anyone

[2:27:09 AM] Jackie: #ME AF

[2:27:09 AM] Jackie: Lmao Shaula, she has no chill. No one takes her seriously anyway

[2:27:18 AM] Jackie: Have you talked to your parents?

[2:28:40 AM] soul: nah

[2:30:54 AM] Jackie: I hope they feel your rage and rebelliousness. How are things with Wes going? I know you've been talking to him more.

[2:31:02 AM] soul: a little better. at least he doesn't hate my guts for pushing him away

[2:33:06 AM] Jackie: He never has. He loves you so much

[2:33:18 AM] soul: im the worst brother ever

[2:33:54 AM] Jackie: You're a hater and I love it. We truly are kindred spirits

[2:34:02 AM] Jackie: All of us just h8 everything. Blackstar wouldn't think twice about punching an old man that looked at him wrong and I literally set our neighbor's carpet on fire for stealing my package from amazon. And you don't love anyone except Wes and your girlfriend.

[2:35:02 AM] soul: kilik is the purest. so untainted. i wonder why he puts up with us

[2:35:16 AM] Jackie: because he's our babysitter

[2:36:06 AM] Jackie: You know what, Evans? I've been thinking. You, me, B*S, Kilik… We're gonna be ok ._.

[2:36:18 AM] soul: we're gona b ok

[2:36:32 AM] soul: ure gona be ok Jackie. you always survive

[2:36:56 AM] Jackie: and you're going to be just fine, Soul. Tell us what's going on. You're so annoying and secretive. We'll make fun of you, but we only do it because we love you.

[2:37:24 AM] soul: holy shit ur fever is killing ur brain

[2:37:40 AM] Jackie: Maaaaybe. I did some investigating on the internet dot com. That girl's name is Maka Albarn, isn't it?

[2:37:54 AM] soul: cease and desist

[2:38:01 AM] Jackie: do you miss her?

[2:38:20 AM] soul: yea

[2:39:28 AM] Jackie: I just love the editorial soooOoOoOo much! You guys love each other so much, I can feel it through these pictures like I was there or something

[2:39:40 AM] Jackie: FUCK I LOVE THIS SO MUCH

[2:39:50 AM] Jackie: I want this buried with me when I die

[2:40:02 AM] soul: go to sleep jackie ur havng delusions again

[2:41:06 AM] Jackie: you're not wrong

[2:55:18 AM] Jackie: actually can you bring me some medicine? I'm so nauseous

[2:55:20 AM] Jackie: FUCK

[2:56:23 AM] soul: omw

* * *

Soul sinks down to rest on the edge of his treadmill once it stops moving. Sweating is _gross_. "Okay, but we're still going to get burgers after this, right?"

"NO MORE GREASE FOR YOU! You gotta work it to twerk it on the runway," Black*Star orders, cracking an imaginary whip. The imagery is more comical than intimidating, seeing as he's propped up in the corner, crutches flung on the floor, his lower leg encased by a walking boot.

"I just want food and sleep."

"ROCK THOSE HIPS, SOUL!"

"You were literally walking for less than three minutes," Kilik points out, looking over from his treadmill. Rhythmic strides fill the empty, small gym at Black*Star's apartment complex, where they decided to hold their first training session. When asked to join their twelve week challenge 'to get a killer hot God bod for the ladies' (Black*Star's words), Soul accepted with his career in mind, while Jackie guffawed and said, "I've already achieved that status. Thanks for the laugh though."

Now Soul's thinking is that he isn't modeling speedos or nude or even shirtless, so why bother?

Regret.

"Let's go," Soul says to no one in particular.

Used to his complaining, neither respond. Black*Star fidgets, never one to be restrained for too long. The fact that he has not walked without a limp or some sort of orthopedic contraption in months is a topic no one dares open for discussion. They're all hoping his recent surgery is the turning point for him.

"THIS SHIT IS SO ITCHY!"

"It's not like it's a cast. You can take it off!"

Black*Star's annoyance is palpable – he lets his rising aggravation at being physically hindered be known through a cacophony of grunts and cursing that summons a redheaded girl. She points a withering glare into the room as she passes, but returns to double-take, tripping over an elliptical in her amazement.

"I've seen you before!" she shouts, jubilant and beside herself, jumping. "You're even cuter in person!"

"I think she's talking to me," Black*Star hollers, puffing out his chest and pointing a thumb at himself. His toothpaste commercial worthy grin has no effect on the redhead, who barely casts a glance in his direction. All of her attention focuses on Soul, who entombs his face in his palms.

Kilik hops off the moving treadmill with the grace of a well-trained gymnast, sensing danger. Thank Hell for his senses, but how are they going to haul ass out of there before more fans corner him.

"Can we take a selfie?"

"No?"

"EXCUSE YOU? I'M RIGHT HERE, I'M MORE PHOTOGENIC THAN THIS CRUSTY FACED LONER!"

But the sarcasm goes in one ear and out the other. In a flash she flocks to his side, squatting down to swing an around him in a half-hug, her head tilted glamorously. Soul's expression is one of incredulous shock – headband tamed hair pulled back, brows furrowed.

"I'm just so excited," she squeaks, saving the photo and uploading it to all of her social media accounts. No one does anything to stop her. Kilik wipes the sweat off his forehead with the towel hung around his neck, Black*Star rages about his perfection, and Soul foresees Shaula Gorgon twisting the innocent picture into some sex scandal once she sees it.

 _Soul Evans gets kinky and tries doggy style with a fan at a gym!_

Fuck his life.

The redhead takes five more pictures with him before squealing about her friends being on the way, and to wait because she's going to be right back.

A pitiful Black*Star army crawls to the doorway, unfazed by nose-diving after failing to clear a hop over a barbell, heaving a crutch down the hallway. "HEY, COME BACK! PAY ATTENTION TO MEEE!"

"I'm surprised she didn't ask you to sign her boobs," Kilik says, making light of the situation.

"Haha, funny," Soul glowers. "Grab one of Black*Star's arms and let's get out of here."

* * *

When he realizes he's slowly recovered, he's in the middle of spreading mayonnaise on four bread slices for Black*Star, who is hopped up on pain meds after falling down the stairs, adamant that no olives be added to his sandwiches. Soul puts everything down and feels his ribs crack with the want to cry. He hadn't thought he could reach such clarity.

* * *

"Surprise!"

Lights flicker on, confetti flutters everywhere like sparkly, slow moving raindrops, and Soul's first reaction is to yell _who the hell is going to clean this up_? Maintaining the apartment in impeccable condition had been one of the few things Soul could offer in return for Kilik's generosity, and they were fucking up hours of meticulous, hand aching cleaning. His friends leap out from behind the couch and gather around him before Soul can backtrack - really, he had expected Shaula Gorgon to pounce on him.

"Congratulations on the modeling!" Kilik cheers, pausing to pluck a shiny paper out of his hair. "Sorry this is kinda late."

"Shit happens," Jackie explains, and Soul unfortunately knows exactly what she means. She looks less tired. "But everything's going to be okay."

Black*Star, on one crutch, swings a heavy arm around Soul's shoulders. "Making that cash money dinerooooo. You're no longer a moocher, bless. When are you getting your own place?"

"Hush, Black*Star," Kilik warns softly, and then raises his voice. "And don't touch him. He can't be bruised, he needs his body for his new job."

"They can cover that shit up with makeup," Black*Star dismisses, wrestling Soul into a headlock and roughly scraping his knuckles against his scalp. It reminds Soul too much of Wes' teasing and he disentangles himself, muttering about having just cut it and the extensive care it needs.

"Too bad it can't cover your mouth," Jackie quips with a permanent disapproving expression that doesn't faze Black*Star at all. Years of faking politeness have soured her to the point where bitter sarcasm is calibrated as a default, but they're so used to her, they've missed her sass.

"You guys don't get it. Soul's been _discovered_."

"That's the whole reason we're having this little get together," Jackie points out. She turns to Soul. "Kilik made a cake, Black*Star bought food and ate so I had to go out and buy some nachos and dip, and I picked up balloons. You owe me sixty dollars, by the way."

"I'm not giving you shit," Soul says evenly, noticing how carefully the streamers hang from the ceiling, how thought-out the placement of each letter of the"congrats" banner is that hangs on the wall.

He feels too much, and for once, it's not a bad thing.

"Fuck, Black*Star, are you still in the habit of leaving the door open?" a voice says, and looking at its owner isn't necessary, but Soul whips around so fast he thinks it gives him whiplash.

"Wes?"

His brother stares at him. "What are you doing here?"

"I live here?! I didn't know you were coming so soon-"

"It was a spur of the moment thing, and these guys wanted me to be here for this." Wes cards a hand through his hair. "I guess the surprise is over." He perks right up, glancing around. "Where's Maka?"

"She's on a business trip."

"I wanted to meet her," he frowns. "You should come visit me, and bring her along."

Months ago he would have rejected the offer, but he stores the idea and mulls it over while Wes entertains. Everytime he's in the same room as his brother, he grows quieter, and his visibility dwindles. Strangely, he feels bitter only distantly.

He and Wes are different people.

"You can come to my runway debut," he offers, and Wes's excitement for him hurts a little, because Soul is fragile.

Jackie, coming to his rescue, elbows him. "How was the shoot for Yummi Designs?"

"It was okay. The photographer was annoying and weird looking."

"Pictures," everyone demands in unison.

"It's not like I went around taking pictures of him on my phone." Soul rolls his eyes.

The small gathering picks up speed but Soul stands in the eye of the storm, where it's lonesome and calm, to watch his friends celebrate his first victories in what feels like years. Lifetime amounts of sugar in the form of soda don't do anything to nudge him away from that sinking feeling of joylessness. Detail oriented, Soul can't help but notice that Jackie and Black*Star both laugh a little longer than usual, and that Kilik relaxes, not worried about anything or anyone for once.

Good.

He wishes Maka was there with him.

Though his emptiness can still reverberate and echo dark thoughts loudly, it's less heavy, less opaque. He can navigate it. He can fill his lungs, count to ten, and exhale, focusing on Wes' animated voice narrating another backstage award ceremony mishap. It's easier to work the muscles in his face that help him smile.

This is a grand opportunity to criticize himself, but even that nagging voice is quieter.

Part of him resents Wes, but the side of him that appreciates the overprotectiveness speaks up. Hell, he feels at home, surrounded by his lifelong friends and an older brother who is willing to fly out for less than twelve hours to ask him about a photoshoot.

Is this recovery? When will he know when he's done? Will he ever be done, unpacked?

When he sneaks out onto the balcony to call her, she doesn't answer.

* * *

"Hey! Sorry for missing your call yesterday."

"S'okay, Maka. How was your Daddy-Daughter date? He said he was going to go out there just to see you, right?"

"Yeah. He cried and hugged me the whole time. And we also got kicked out of my favorite restaurant here because he groped our waitress. All while he was wailing about missing me."

"Incredible."

"Yeah. Next Saturday he's coming out here again to take me to the museum. If he wants to be in my life again, I'm going to make him work for it."

"Good. Uhm, listen, Maka-"

"Wait, hold on – Tsubaki is getting back to me about our plans. We'll skype on Friday, okay?"

* * *

The devil ascends from Hell on Thursday, veiled in a long black cloak and a floppy Fedora. Perched on the bench outside of Kilik's apartment complex, a sickening faux sweet smile fixed on her pale face, Shaula Gorgon looks about ready to slice someone's throat open.

"Holy shit, that's her!" Soul yelps in a strangled whisper, tugging Jackie back around the corner with him by her collar. There is a possibility that she may be an illusion triggered by a stomach jam-packed with pizza and spaghetti, but a quick glance verifies the reporter's existence.

"It's fucking Shaula Gorgon," he clarifies, lowkey panicked, ignoring the silent death glare Jackie aims at him. Normally this initiates week long melees of resting bitch face stares, but he can't think of that right now. Seeing Shaula in the flesh incites a rush of terror. "She's here to talk about Juilliard again and ruin modeling for me."

"Don't flatter yourself," Jackie scoffs, waving him off. "She's probably here to beat me up for making that blog post about her. Let her fight me."

"Let's just _go_ ," he begs, hands jittery. Although the feeling hasn't visited him in a while, the sensation of his heart beating unpredictably and his brain sputtering like a car engine reluctant to start is familiar.

"Fine, let's go see what Black*Star is doing," Jackie relents, gathering her hair and pulling up her hood. The look she gives him is one mixed with concern and speculation, but Soul doesn't care to elaborate.

* * *

Friday comes and goes all too quickly. Maka stays offline. Soul stares longingly at her Skype icon, willing the small circle to fill with green, or for his phone to ring and notify him that she's calling, but neither happens. Substituting Maka's hugs with a pillow isn't the same - it may smell as sweet as she does, but it certainly does not cuddle back, or blow raspberries on his dimple when he's grouchy, or pinch his nose as punishment for falling asleep and drooling in her hair.

It hurts distantly that she's forgotten about him.

* * *

"I'm ready to scratch her face off," Kim seethes. It's strange that Maka's absence pushes them closer, as if they're trying to fill a Makaless void. She tries to coax him into dying his hair ("but you could literally dye it any color, it's so white!") but stops giving dating lectures after Soul bribes her with money.

They're at their usual haunt: the diner. Soul watches the employee double doors, waiting for his burger, while Kim thumbs through tabloid magazines. "What did Shaula do this time?"

"She said Maka is stealing pattern ideas from Arachne!"

Soul makes a choking noise. "How is that even possible? That's bullshit."

" _Arachne Gorgon is looking into filing a lawsuit against the lead designer of Meister, who once served as an intern and is suspected of stealing creative property."_

"If she means the sketchbook, Maka ruined that by spilling coffee all over it," he says. "She's just trying to get Maka to come out and say it. That's… really, really low."

"Poor Maka," Kim sighs. "I hope she's too busy doing whatever to keep tabs on this."

Soul keeps the Shaula sighting to himself. One look at her had broken the floodgates holding back the microscopic pangs of shame and regret attached to the expulsion scandal. He's not sure if anything will ever completely ease these torments, but coming face to face with the very person who exploited the most stressful time of his life could possibly be triggering. Obviously, not owning up to his mistake wasn't the best way to deal with the situation. At least he's made strides towards coming to terms with it.

Now that he's in a much better place, why does she insist on ruining that for him?

Soul contemplates asking Kim if she knows anything about Maka's schedule, but thinks better of it. He'd come off as clingy.

"I worry about her, you know," Kim sighs, chin rested on her palm. Cheek squished, she puffs out a breath, blowing a few strands of her bob away. "She hasn't been answering my calls."

At least he knows he's not wrong to worry.

"Has she called you, Soul?"

"No," he says, deciding he doesn't want to talk about it. So he settles on complimenting Kim's hair, which has faded from a rich magenta to a cool bubble gum pink. It doesn't hurt his eyes to look at it, he tells her.

"You could dye your hair this color, too!"

" _NO."_

* * *

The tabloid headlines reek of preposterity:

" _Another Albarn secretly checks into rehab!"_

" _Like father, like daughter: sordid lives and pasts!"_

" _Soul Evans, broke and living on a couch!"_

(Okay, but where is the lie in this one? Shaula doesn't need to invent anything outrageous for him, because he's the playwright of his own fucked up life.)

" _Soul breaks friend's ankle in a jealous rampage."_

" _SoMa: two failures who leech off each other!"_

" _Are they using each other as a publicity stunt?"_

" _The elopement of the century!"_

" _Maka steals designs from previous companies!"_

" _Soul to Maka: you're not allowed to be more famous than me!"_

And the most ridiculous one:

" _Maka Albarn cheats on secret boyfriend Soul with another model!"_

Shaula Gorgon's angle should have been obvious from the very beginning. Painting Maka as a 'manipulative, fame-hungry hussy' had served as the first warning sign that the reporter would choose that route. Soul doesn't believe anything he reads for a second - where would he be without unconditional love and respect?

Neither Soul nor Maka bring up the articles - not that he can get a hold of her. He misses her voice.

* * *

Soul counts down the days until Maka returns using sunrises. Withdrawals are not fun, but waking and eating at scheduled times lessens the struggle of self-care. It's not that loneliness digs at him like an icepick anymore. Hesitant joy finds him again during video game marathons with the crew, Kilik owning all of their asses at Guitar Hero.

He just craves Maka's presence.

The morning that Maka's plane touches down, Shaula posts a picture of her on her blog, suitcase in tow. Soul recognizes her powerful stride and his body responds with butterflies.

 _Celebrity sighted: flirtatious designer of 'Meister' headed to woo more models._

Whatever. His skin crawls when he thinks about her unexpected visit. Running away hadn't fixed her looming threat, but… _whatever_. As far as he knows, she hasn't camped out in front of their apartment complex.

He paces at the terminal. When he sees a haggard, pigtailed girl carrying bags both in her hands and underneath her eyes sprinting toward him, he rushes to meet her halfway. Coos and _aww's_ explode around them from onlookers, supplemented by the sound camera shutters, but Soul is too enwrapped with breathing her in to care.

Kissing is just _so good._

"Take these," she says, picking up her luggage.

Time to redeem some cool points by being a grouch. "You owe me a piggy back ride," he pretends to gripe. There is comfort knowing that the part of him that is too shy to display emotions will never change. He is still himself.

Suitcases hit the tiled floor with a fast _thunk_. Sure hands smoosh his cheeks together before she scoops him up. All his blood rushes to his feet and he is momentarily dizzy, partially from disbelief that she's able to carry him bride-style, partially because she lightly smooches his nose. She equips a daredevil smile and a wink and he is a goner all over again.

* * *

"So, this is where you live when you're not with me."

"Yeah… I sleep on that couch. I'm going to move out soon. I just haven't had time to go apartment hunting."

Maka, hands clasped behind her back, glances interestedly at everything - band posters, pictures, and Kilik's culinary degree. The corner of the living room houses Black*Star's forgotten gym bags, as well as his boxing gloves. The dart board hanging above the television belongs to Jackie. Nothing in the room is exactly _Soul's_ , but he has enough memories of late night board games and bake-a-thons (bless Kilik, really) to feel like he belongs.

The plant Maka had entrusted to Soul when they first met sits on the coffee table.

"It looks so healthy," she says happily, touching its leaves. The way she smiles lets him know she's thinking of it too - how they decided to drop all the formalities. Nostalgia warms his bones. Of course he had liked her from the very beginning, for no explicable reason. The craving to reach out and kiss her overwhelms him suddenly.

"Not everything I touch dies," he says.

"Well, I'm glad for that. Otherwise I would worry," she jokes, but the smile quickly vanishes when she digs out a magazine from the bottom of the mail pile.

"Uhhm… Jackie and Black*Star read those for the articles," Soul insists, wincing apologetically.

"Right." Huffing, she slams dunks the issue with Naked Miss 2015 facedown. "That's what my papa always says, too. These type of magazines are disgu–what are these, anyway?"

Envelopes - some heart-shaped, others pink, some scented with perfume - wait for Soul on the kitchen table. Jackie swears the mail carrier dedicates a separate bag for his fan letters. Reaching around him, Maka snags a postcard, reading it aloud: "'To Soul omg you're so hot'."

He hasn't done anything wrong, yet it feels like he's cheated on her.

"At least she has good taste," Maka allows, exchanging it for another. "Ah, it looks like Mr. Grumpus has a fanclub now."

Soul shrugs. "It's a bunch of thirteen year olds. It's creepy."

"My papa gets a lot of these, too. He isn't private about anything though. Sometimes he'll reply to some of his letters, but he has some crazy fans."

"I bet," he deadpans.

"Soul, just be careful. These people can get seriously obsessive really quickly."

He's distracted by sticking his hand between the couch pillows. "I told you about what happened at the gym the other day - hey, I found my phone! Ready to go?"

Conversation forgotten, she beams. "Where are we going for our second date?"

* * *

They shiver, the wind congealing even in the hollow spaces in their bones, but Maka _oohs_ at the trees shimmying in the wind, snowflakes fluttering. They're not too far from the city, where greenery that isn't delivered by Maka's papa exists. Technically it isn't in public, because they're miles away from anyone, but that doesn't matter to Soul. He blushes as Maka grasps his hand and they stroll through a special kind of silence that only exists in the winter, after the last of the daylight fades.

Maka convinces him to flop onto the ground to make snow angels - he does, and while it freezes his ass and some snow finds its way down his collar, it's fun. There is something soothing about the quiet between the two of them. The cold is calming, cleansing.

"I don't wanna get up," he says.

Maka rolls over, forearms resting on his chest. She is the brave one out of the two - she initiates most of the kisses and hugs and cuddling. Soul doesn't want to disrespect her. She has so many boxes to unpack, most resulting from her papa's deceit, and venturing into a relationship when they haven't set boundaries probably wasn't the best idea.

But it just happened.

She stops his thinking with soft kisses to every inch of his face. They fill him to the brim with bravery - arms around her waist, he pushes himself off, rolling on top of her. He can practically feel her laughter when he pecks the corner of her eye.

He is not known for being smooth or suave. The world whirls and they're tumbling down a hill he hadn't noticed, tangled in each other.

Sometime between seeing the sky above and the white ground beneath them, he wonders when he began associating Maka with the cold, and looks forward to being with her in the summertime.

* * *

"You don't have to keep shepherding me home from work, Soul," Maka says, taking his hand. She holds her sketchbook to her chest with her free arm. They're masked by the eleven o'clock night, and though the air itself chills, there is nowhere he would rather be than with Maka.

"I like walking you home," he says, nervous. "It's like walking a dog or something."

She sighs, biting back a smile. "That's close enough to a compliment. We'll work on that."

Saying what he feels and _knowing_ are at the opposite ends of the spectrum. There is no way to describe how Maka sparks a fire in him. It already sounds cheesy and humiliatingly corny in his lovesick head. So he keeps his feelings silent and to himself.

Along the way, they attract the attention of a younger teen donning a yellow coat.

"Are you Soul?" she asks, mouth agape.

"No, sorry. I'm Wes."

"Can I have your autograph?"

He scribbles his brother's name on the business card that's shoved at him. Usually this sates the fans' wishes, but not this one - she shadows after them, almost frolicking.

"Is that your girlfriend, like Shaula Gorgon says in her articles?"

Even in the dim lamp streetlight glow, with everything but her eyes masked by a scarf and a woolen pink hat, the exasperated snarl Maka tosses over her shoulder is unmistakable. Her tolerance for bullshit is in the negatives, her radar for an oncoming fight sensitive to even the smallest of threats. Soul hopes that she's wrong and that this overzealous fan gets the message and fucking _leaves him alone,_ but the girl runs a few steps to get closer to them.

Maka's eyes narrow. A white puff of air simmers from her parted lips like steam from a chimney.

"Hey, I'm talking to you!"

People are awful. A calm sort of panic overtakes Soul, who loops his arm around Maka's. "Just ignore her," he beseeches in hushed tones. "If we ignore her, she'll get bored."

But she doesn't. She just keeps antagonizing them. "So she is your girlfriend! She's kind of plain, isn't she?"

"She's just trying to get under your skin," Soul reminds a bristling Maka, tugging her along.

"And she's cheating on you, you know-"

She spins, scowling, every soft line on her face hardening. She's preparing for an attack. "Why don't you get lost?" Now is not the time to shush or correct her tone.

The footsteps stop. Soul doesn't dare look back. He speeds up, Maka seemingly satisfied that their stalker has thrown in the towel. He will have to circle a few blocks to make sure they're not followed to the Inn. All of the alarms in his body are quietening. Thank goodness that they managed to evade any serious problems -

Just as abruptly as it paused, a flurry of heavy thuds fall, and Soul doesn't have to glance over his shoulder to know that their follower is racing towards them, boots kicking snow everywhere. He tightens his grasp on Maka's wrist and dashes forward - the jolt surprises her, and her sketchbook plummets into the snow.

Maka jerks free just as their stalker eyes the leather cover curiously.

It's a look of pure hatred that Soul's never been privy to – she never makes that face even when she recounts all the signs of her papa's infidelity, or recites exact lines from Shaula's article.

" _Don't touch it!_ "

An annoyed glare is all she receives. The teen bends over, and before she even extends a hand towards it, Maka rips free from Soul's grasp, bounding for her. The ground must shake ominously underneath the girl's feet because she yelps, retreating.

Soul's mouth is zipped shut. Did she really just run back to grab her sketchbook?

The two girls stare at each other. He can tell by the way Maka stands - perfectly still, one foot in front of the other as if she's preparing to sprint - that a fight isn't improbable. Her whole body quivers as she inhales, exhales, inhales, exhales, inhales. She is a feral animal, ears perking at the sound of danger, waiting for the pounce, ready to defend.

"GO AWAY!" No one would mistake this for a plea. The way her voice vibrates with commands clearly spells out that she's at her breaking point. It's a warning.

"DON'T CALL THE COPS! I'M JUST FIFTEEN YEARS OLD!" Squawking, the girl gallops away, dropping the sketchbook like it's a bomb and shouting a parting "I LOVE YOU" at him.

Unbelievable.

Soul isn't sure how to feel - he is not quick to anger. Throwing a few snarky comments around isn't equivalent to losing his cool, but he's literally seeing red and he can't understand why that sketchbook was more important than her safety. Who knows what that girl was going to do?

Assured that Maka is okay, he runs to her side, the last of his patience run dry. "Maka, what – what was that?"

Frantic, she scrapes the snow off the cover gently with the back of her hand before examining its pages. "Please don't let anything be ruined, please don't let anything be ruined, please don't let anything be ruined," she croons. Small hiccups interrupt sniffles.

Sympathy reigns for a short-lived moment. The crinkles in her chin remind him of a child whose toy has been broken, and it's reasonable that she's worried because the black leathered sketchbook houses her designs, but anger conquers.

'Control' is a word that vanishes from his vocabulary. Sharp words thunder off his tongue – yelling isn't a good feeling but he can't stop himself. He's never been one to eloquently list his concerns. They snowball into a heap of turmoil and gross emotions that he can't unravel.

"I can't believe you're more worried about your stupid sketchbook than your own safety-"

She tenses. Teary eyed or not, tenacious ferocity is her default. Clearly, she interprets his statement as criticism against her passion."What did you want me to do? Just leave it there? Let her take it?"

He's appalled that she misses the point. "You're the one who keeps warning me about crazed fans-"

"There was no way I was going to leave my work literally on the floor-"

"That's just it, Maka. You're working too much."

Half of her face droops, unable to fathom such a concept. She wears expressions so well - it's impossible for Soul to not be overrun with feelings. Her cuteness is undeniable, even when she's on his last nerve. "I don't understand why you keep bringing that up. How much I work doesn't concern you, so back off."

He wants to the conversation to end, _right now_ , so he pockets his hands and throws out a blanket statement: "You're working yourself sick! Take it down a few levels at least."

But she's not ready to drop the subject. She digs her boots into the ground in emphasis. "I have to give it my all! I'm not going to get where I want to be by 'taking it easy'."

"Maka, I never said you had to stop."

"Why are you so against me trying to start my own line? You've been sulking ever since I told you about going to meet Tsubaki-"

That's not how he wanted her to see him, not at all. He would trade anything for her happiness, but not her health, which is his point. She has selective hearing and she's using it _too_ well.

"Have you even seen yourself?" Soul points at the plum colored splotches that seem like stains on her otherwise creamy skin. "You look damn tired all the time. What's going on with you, lately? Even Kim says you aren't talking to her anymore."

"Don't talk about me behind my back," Maka snaps.

Soul sighs, deciding to steer the conversation in a new direction. "Seriously, Maka, what's wrong? You're so stressed out-"

"I'm so close to breaking out into high fashion, I can taste it. And it's not like I can cheat or anything-"

The sketchbook flies to cover her mouth, green eyes wider than a deer in headlights. Except for a tiny muffled yelp, the silence that engulfs them is akin to one that follows an earthquake. Disbelief chills his skin more than the below zero temperature. For a moment he questions if he had heard correctly. Did she really just try to throw Juilliardgate in his face like that?

He is calm. "Say that one more time."

And she knows him better than the back of her hand. She has accidentally trampled on a fragile part of Soul, one that is still healing. "I know that sounded really bad, but I didn't mean it like that."

Never would he have dared to think that she would manipulate Juilliardgate to win an argument. A brick to the face would have been more probable. The rational side of his brain reasons that a poor choice of diction should be to blame, and not her per se, but the part of him that is still recovering from the scandal cries out.

 _Danger danger danger_ , it warns.

Closing himself off is automatic.

"Is that really how you think of me? That I was cheating to try and make it?"

Maka's eyebrows knit together. She's hesitant, angry, attempting to remain calm. Though she doesn't use her mouth, the lack of a quick response wounds Soul.

"Guess you really did believe Shaula Gorgon's articles about me." In a way, it's almost relieving to know the truth - it only reinforces the belief that Maka is too good for him and deserves someone in her playing field.

"It's not that at all, Soul!"

"You don't have to lie-" Steeling himself comes naturally to him. Walls spring back up, automatically summoned. It's too easy to believe the negative voices cackling in his head. A failure like Soul will always be just that to hard working people like Maka.

She takes a step toward him, but Soul turns away. Crying seems like a real thing that could happen to him. He's unstable and hopelessly tired of Juilliardgate.

"Soul, I thought we agreed to be partners?" Her voice is agony.

What he wants to do is scream at her until he's hoarse, but that would require looking at her - she is both distraught and angry, a beautiful combination. He can't yell. How does she wear everything so well? She is his complete opposite. Biting down and clenching his teeth is his only response.

"I didn't mean to make it seem like I was talking about what happened at Juilliard," she says.

"Good to know you're as good at spilling words as you are spilling coffee," he fires.

"Excuse me?" She is shrill, indignant. If looks could kill, he would be facedown, an instant fatality.

He wonders what his own face looks like.

She balls up her fists. "I'm not sure why you're always against me trying to be successful. Is it because you failed at Juilliard? I'm tougher than you think, Soul - I'm not going to let the stress break me."

A tsunami of words and thoughts drown him. The unspoken words " _like it broke you"_ hangs between them like a divider. It stings, it sears. To him, it's a declaration - he's weak and frail, flimsy. While he could count off the times she's missed a full night's sleep and neglected herself, he's too blinded by sheer fury to articulate coherent syllables.

Maka stands her ground, scowling bitterly.

Numb, Soul trudges in the opposite direction.


	7. it's criminal to miss you this much

The next thing that happens is - everything.

Two days pass without a single text from Maka. No smiley face emojis, no emoticons, no rants, no selfies. He almost goes into physical shock from the abruptness of her absence. It's like when she was in California. Bitter, his only solace is reminding himself that she had been talking to him less, anyway. Acting like a needy asshole only catalyzed their drifting apart.

Shaula Gorgon's rampage picks up speed. Soul ignores Kilik's suggestion to clear the air by making a statement, deciding to let the public think what they want. Does he really look like a drug dealer, like she claims? Wouldn't he have more money if he were running a black market operation?

Spirit Albarn becomes one of her favorite people to gossip about. Wondering if any of the sexcapades are true makes him want to rip his brain out. Twice he's opened up a text message thread with the intent to ask Maka if she's handling the negative publicity okay, but then the argument echoes in his mind and he closes it.

The photos for Yummi Designs attract more attention. Reporters contact him, wanting to schedule an interview, but he refuses every time. Kilik orders most of what Soul modeled ("do you know if it shrinks in the wash?"), Jackie makes a collage of his photos and orders customized postcards, and Black*Star lusts after Liz when they hang out.

"Brodude, is she single? She has nice ti-"

"If you finish that sentence," Jackie warns from the bathroom, "I will snap your back in half. Stop objectifying women!"

Black*Star looks disgusted. "Did she just pause peeing to yell at me? How did she _hear_?"

Everything happens much too fast for Soul's foggy mind. It's safer not to feel anything at all, so Soul doesn't. Thinking is paused until further notice. Memories? Wiped away. Sleeping, eating, and lazing around don't take much effort - he is a ghost for a few days. He accompanies Jackie while she runs her errands and searches for things to blog about, and helps Black*Star run through his physical therapy exercises. He even works out with Kilik.

Soul does everything to fill up his time except think about Maka and her infectious smile and cold, soft hands.

He _fucked up_.

It eases the guilt gnawing at him that she shares some of the blame, too. He wakes on the third day after the blowout, warm and tangled in blankets on his couch instead of freezing and practically hanging off the edge of the Maka's lumpy bed, her svelte arms circled around his waist. Regrets about the fight hit him like a semi truck. Maybe he should've approached the topic of Maka's tendency to overwork differently…

The Juilliard incident, though. She used it against him without hesitance.

Waves of anger instantly wash over the part of him that aches for her company, and he resolves to trade in his homesickness for a grudge.

It sort of works.

Kilik hones in on his foul mood when he emerges from the bathroom, yawning. He offers him breakfast and concern on his way out the door to work. "You've been in a quiet mood lately. What's up?"

Maybe he's not good at hiding his emotions, after all.

He hates the couch - it must have soaked up the negative thoughts from his last depressive episode, because all too quickly they plant their roots and flourish: Not good enough. Always saying the wrong thing. Swarmed with mistakes.

But he's equipped with enough courage to battle those thoughts. He's more than his actions, more than just loud emptiness.

He dives under the blankets. "I'm just annoyed. I kind of got into a fight with Maka."

This prompts Kilik to summon a groggy Jackie and Black*Star via text without Soul's knowledge. The rickety sound of a crutch barrelling down the hallway is his only warning. He should know better than to open the door - he just wants to sulk _alone_ \- but remembers that isolation isn't the answer.

He needs to open up. Unpack.

"One of my fans basically tried to attack us, and Maka dropped her sketchbook while we were running away," he says quickly when asked why he's 'brooding like the kid that gets picked last at kickball'. "And she freaking went _back_ for it and almost got into a fight!"

That's more talking than he's done in his whole life, and he considers the conversation over.

Except they're so _pushy_.

Jackie is Soul's closest friend. Their amity is a mountain of jagged edges and steep falls that have resulted from disputes and shaky periods of mistrust, but the view from the peak is beautiful and without equal. While he may become a stranger to himself at times, she knows him thoroughly, and this is why on days like today, when she tries to pry for a deeper explanation and he refuses to supply, they don't get along.

Meanwhile, Black*Star is flabbergasted at the 'breakup.' The poor thing scratches his scalp, bushy brows furrowed. "I don't get it. What was the problem?"

Soul rolls his eyes so hard he thinks he strains something. "Just forget it."

"What's wrong with you?" he presses, exasperated. Pringle crumbs border his mouth, like a beard, his hair an exact replica of a bird's nest. "I don't believe you, Soul. You've been spending all this time with Maka like some kind of lapdog, and now that one thing went wrong, you guys ripped each other apart. AND you ran away like you're some cold hearted bastard."

"It isn't like that," Soul retorts, although he knows that Black*Star is describing the situation truthfully and precisely, and he doesn't like the way he is being portrayed.

"I bet she cried, bro."

"She didn't cry… I think!" Soul prays to every god, evil and good alike, that she didn't. "Thanks for blaming me and making me the bad guy."

Hopping up, sticking his boot-protected leg out, Black*Star flops onto the couch next to Soul. "Wanna cry on my shoulder?"

"Fuck off. I'm okay." He's not.

"Then why did Kilik call me and Jackie over here?" Black*Star demands, leaning forward on his elbows. "Well?"

 _Because he's like Maka and works too much_ , he wants to snap. Instead, regretting his shitty thoughts, he says, "Stay out of it, okay? If Maka wants to focus on her career and forget about me, then fine. She made it clear. I'm not her priority."

"Here we go," Jackie pipes in, eyes still glued to the laptop, fingers sailing across her keyboard. She resembles her old self, long hair back to its stick straight sheen, and sarcasm at full blast. "Here come the waterworks."

"Shut up."

"You're upset because you think Maka chose a freakin' sketchbook over you. A _book_." She's so logical and great at pointing out his idiosyncrasies, it isn't fair.

He is on the defensive. "Okay, but you don't know how obsessed she is with books. And her job!"

"What did you want her to do? Use her sketchbook as a shield? Use it as a snowboard and ride away?"

"She could have not gone back to get it," he spits. "Who knows what that stalker girl could have done!"

Jackie cackles, actually looking away from her computer screen to give him a withering look. "Please, Soul. It sounds like Maka was ready to throw down. You're not telling us the whole story."

One of the numerous downsides of keeping his feelings bottled up is that too much happens, and he is a person of few words. Letting others know what's going on has never been one of his gifts. _Stay lowkey and keep shit to yourself_ serves as his motto, so at times like these, he doesn't know where to start.

He sighs. "She brought up the Juilliard shitshow. Said that there's no way of cheating in the fashion industry."

Even Black*Star is speechless. For once, Soul wishes they would tell him how to feel.

"And she got mad because I told her she works too much."

Jackie's stare doesn't betray any emotion.

"And then we just yelled and I don't even know what happened," he admits.

Taking off her glasses and rubbing her temples, Jackie shakes her head. "Soul," she begins, sternly, shutting her laptop. "You're. Being. RIDICULOUS!"

Defensive, he crosses his arms and says nothing.

Black*Star's verdict goes like this: "You guys both fucked up."

* * *

Wes mourns over the phone when he pries the details of the argument out of Soul. Maka is destined to be his sister-in-law. "Fix this, Soul. Make my dreams come true. Apologize. It's a misunderstanding." Blahblablah. He repeats, "she has such cute pigtails" and "she's an angel" blahblahshit so many times that it fries Soul's last nerve and he hangs up.

As much as Soul misses her silvery voice, he can't face her - does she really think of him as a failure? A cheater?

If Maka hates anything with a passion, it's cheaters.

* * *

Just like the first photoshoot, Soul reports to Maka's office two weeks prior for the fitting.

It's different this time. Maka doesn't greet him by telling him to take off his shirt (that should have been an early sign that she prioritizes work over anything), and there is none of her trademark playfulness to cancels out the fact that her eyebags are more pronounced than ever. Being the one on the receiving end of her silent treatment is worse than any bodily injury he's ever suffered. For a bizarre moment, he sympathizes with her papa, who's seen his daughter twice in the span of ten years.

Soul doesn't want the same thing to happen to him.

"Go put this on," she says stiffly, throwing a grey suit at him a little too violently. "And then come back here."

Not undressing in front of her feels strange, like there are too many barriers between them, like they're hiding from each other. Standing in front of her with his arms out in a scarecrow-like manner, he steels himself under her scrutiny.

"The pant leg is too long," she notes to herself, kneeling in front of him with a pincushion.

A shiver creeps up his spine even before she touches him, trickling in phantom waves to his fingertips; he curls his toes and tries to erase knowing what it's like to be spooned after a nightmare. They never held hands, never kissed, never felt the other's sadness and joys. Nothing about Maka Albarn has touched Soul.

Nothing.

Nothing - yeah, he can't pretend.

Irony is cruel.

Focusing on her hands to distract himself is a mistake, too. Hungrily, he drinks her in - bony knuckles, thin fingers, the dry patch of skin between her thumb and index finger. She's gentle, careful not to accidentally brush him. It's a punishment in itself.

Words evade him, stuck in his throat. He wants to apologize and make things right again, because being so close and yet so distant is torture.

"I thought we were partners," she says softly, pushing a pin through the fabric.

"We are, Maka."

Her voice rises like the volume knob turned all the way up on a stereo. "Then why are you so against me starting my own company?!"

That escalated quickly.

"Maka, it's not that - you're taking on too much, and I'm worried about you! At least think about sticking to one thing. Maybe you could phase out of helping Marie and just focus on your own line?"

"If I did that, then I couldn't be your stylist anymore," is all she says, refusing to meet his eyes and securing another pin.

Taking a punch to the kidney would have been less jarring than hearing this. Is that what she thinks - that he doesn't want to work with her, and he's trying to get away from her?

"We always hang out outside of work," he reasons. "In fact, we almost never see each other here."

From the way Maka falls silent, he thinks he's broken through. He wishes that were his own lip trapped between her teeth. There has to be something criminal about Soul missing her this much.

A prick of the pin interrupts his internal monologue. "OW - I'm not fabric, be careful!"

"I'm so sorry! Stop fidgeting. You're not making this any easier!"

"Can we just drop the formalities?" It comes out gruffer than he intended.

She slowly narrows her eyes, cautious. "Just say what you're going to say."

Although her words are docile, her tone slices through any white-flag-waving sentiments persuading him to iron out their issues. Bulldozers and wrecking balls are the only forces on this planet capable of getting through her stubborn, thick skull.

"Actually, apologize for that comment you made about coffee that night," she demands, lips set in a thin line, tilting her head up as if to challenge him.

"Take back what you said about Juilliard," he shoots back, hands dug into the suit's pockets. The bowtie feels like hands wrapping around his neck, a sure sign that he's messing up yet again.

"I didn't mean anything by it!" Bristling, she points a finger at him. "What I meant was, there are no shortcuts in the fashion industry. I have to work through this and make a name for myself, and then I can relax later."

"Haven't you already made your name, though? Your stuff is everywhere. I'm sure Marie would understand if you explained you're too busy-"

Maka sours, her distaste apparent. "You're trying really hard to make me leave Mjolnir Strikes. Are you done with me, now that you have groupies?"

Stuttering doesn't help convince her of his intentions. Taken aback, he gapes until he's completely mute.

"If you don't want me around anymore, just come out and say it," she continues, and for the first time, her voice cracks like glass. But she's nothing if not armed with bullheadedness. In a blink she rallies a choleric pout.

"I want you around," he promises. "I wanna be around. It's just-"

It's not good enough. She's a ticking time bomb and he can't be careful enough. "That's like saying 'but'! But _what,_ Soul?"

"Nothing, you're just not listening!" Yelling won't mitigate the argument. The more she swells up with fury, the more he withdraws into himself, lowering his voice, slouching cumbersomely. "It's just that you're not around because you're working too much."

"And I keep telling you, I don't think so!"

"Fine," he says, shrugging impassively. Thank goodness that the lightswitch to his emotions still exists. Finding it means relief - he shuts down, tired and emotionally drained.

This deflates her, all of her anger visibly draining out and replaced with bewilderment, "Fine?" she repeats skeptically, as if the word fits oddly in her mouth.

"Yeah, I don't want to argue anymore."

She raises a perfect brow. "Where's my apology?"

"You're a spoiled brat," he rolls his eyes. Negativity possesses him. It's a vital part of him, and while he feels better overall, it looms in his darkest corners and drifts out at the worst times.

"You worry too much! Bossy idiot," she retorts.

"You have fat ankles," he grumbles, at a loss for more insults. It's a lie - she has great ankles, yes, very lovely - and manic laughter threatens to spill out of him at his own stupidity.

"TAKE IT BACK!"

"You don't have to apologize for the Juilliard comment, but at least take care of yourself," he tries to compromise. Ignoring his wounded ego is not a sacrifice compared to healing their relationship and redirecting their focus on her health.

But Maka doesn't see it this way. She fires her last shots: "Fine! Fuck you too, then!"

Soul refuses to feel anything as she stomps away. Thank goodness for light switches and selective hearing.

"Congratulations on getting to go on the runway, and have fun with your fangirls. I guess you're allowed to advance your career but I'm not," she sneers, nose scrunching, whipping her head around so fiercely that a few runaway strands slip out of the elastic holding her messy bun together. The backhanded compliment stings more than the door slamming shut behind her. It makes the whole room appear to shake, but really it's only his hands that quiver.

* * *

Less than two minutes later, as Soul stalks out the backdoor of Mjolnir Strikes much like he had when he argued with Wes, Kim steps out of the bushes to block his path. He chokes on laughter when he sees her face - contorted, twisted, angrier than a third degree burn. She could cut steel with her sharp scowl.

Before Soul can utter a stupid joke about her habit of popping out of nowhere, she charges at him, shrieking something about revenge. Fight-or-flight instincts kick in, and he springs backward blindly. His feet hit the pavement with such force that the jolt vibrates in all his joints.

Even in six inch knee high boots, Kim Diehl catches up to him. Grabbing the back of his jacket, she reels him in, and he begs for mercy.

"Wait! Don't hit my face. I need it for the photoshoot."

Kim snorts. "They can cover that with makeup!"

He really should introduce her to Jackie.

"Hold still," she orders, shaking him until stars twinkle behind his eyelids. "What did I tell you about hurting Maka?"

Vaguely, he recalls Kim's promises of violence, and he imagines a ring-shaped indention in between his eyes and the mortician trying desperately to make his corpse presentable.

" _Shit_ ," he says, accepting his fate.

She relaxes her grip. "Yeah, you messed up. But so did Maka. Let me tell you how to fix this so we can all get on with our lives."

"Huh?"

"Just listen," she repeats, preening her hair. "For some reason, Maka really likes you-"

This livens his sappy heart. He perks up the tiniest bit, though outwardly he is determined to remain stone cold and aloof. "Yeah, that explains why we just got into a screaming match."

"Don't get sassy with me. Anyway-"

Soul brushes her off. She squints at him, scandalized (did he really just snub her?), and apologies don't come easily to him today, so he ambles toward Kilik's apartment.

Heel clicks follow him. The sound seeps into his skin - is it a symptoms of his lovesickness that even this reminds him of Maka? The footfalls are more adamant and steadfast then Maka's self assured sashay, so it's easy to kick in his expertise at pushing unwanted feelings away.

At least momentarily. His feelings for Maka are both a curse and a gift. They sneak up on him at the most inconvenient times. Never did he think he could be so full, but here he is, clumsily sorting them out.

"I happen to have insider information," Kim begins. "She's really upset about the fight, and you may have noticed that she's not good at expressing herself when it comes to tough conversations."

"No shit."

"She's just scared of losing you!"

Soul jerks to a stop so suddenly that Kim slams into him with an _ufff_. "That's stupid. I'm not going anywhere… unless she wants me to get lost."

Brushing off flakes of snow from her teal coat, Kim sighs. "This is just like her. She convinces herself of something and then it sort of becomes her reality. It's just like when she went to California for a few weeks - she was afraid you'd find someone else."

"There could be no one else," he grumbles, pulling his beanie down over his ears because he's not sure what to do with all the thoughts zooming around in his mind. Mortification might have zapped him at saying something so incredibly mushy, but this is a special occasion. If only he could articulate himself better to Maka.

"And you've been getting so much attention from people. She's just a little jealous."

"How do you know all this?"

"I just know her," Kim says matter-of-factly. "She's my best friend."

While her explanation does clear up Maka's warning before she embarked on her trip, there is no denying the fact that it's all second hand speculation. "Maybe I should be having this conversation with Maka and not you," he sighs.

"Let me talk to her again-"

"Stop, Kim."

"Look, Soul. I know that it seems like I'm being nosey, but I'm trying to help. I just…" The struggle is all too real for Kim, who swallows like she's being forced to drink a bitter concoction. "I just don't want you to think she hates you or something."

He's a little bit touched. "Thanks, Kim."

"You better fix this," she warns, forcing a scowl as if to make up for slipping up and showing support. "I'm tired of the fighting. Believe it or not, but I'd rather you two make kissy faces at each other than this."

Winning Kim's approval means the world to Soul (not that he would ever admit it).

* * *

Sleepless nights do nothing to quiet his heart.

Insomnia creeps up on him, winding up paranoid gears and offsetting a strange cascade of introspection.

Is he happy? Boredom fills his life, but that's better than not wanting to be here. Is this his new standard? Even while he still had the honor of holding Maka's hand, the creeping sense of emptiness still existed, but at least then he wasn't alone. Solitude of the mind isn't as curable a fix as the physical kind.

Maybe choosing Shaula Gorgon's website to read as a bedtime story is a mistake, but Soul is a collection of errors and defects, so his phone's glow cuts through the apartment's darkness at three in the morning. Reading three articles in a row about Spirit's kinky adventures, whether they are true or not, makes him want to throw up his dinner, but everything she writes is a twenty out of ten in the ridiculosity scale. He can't look away. Though he has never had the misfortune to meet Maka's papa, he's obviously a professional at being a mess, and would be given an F for _fucked up_ if grades were to be assigned.

But he's not the only Albarn that Shaula has posted about.

Five hours ago, Shaula uploaded a video of a familiar gilded haired girl shoving through a crowd of paparazzi. In the still frame she is shielding her face from the camera with her hand, chin tilted downward, and Soul can tell by the way her fingers are flared out that she's holding back a few punches.

Soul doesn't blame her. Just looking at the frozen frame of people crowding around her flares up his claustrophobia. Thanks to her papa being the new media target, she's had to endure a lot of more attention from nosey reporters who have a penchant for stretching the truth, though none of them hold a candle to the youngest Gorgon sister.

Should he watch the 25 second clip? It's a one way ticket to missing her more than he already does, but it's also a temporary remedy for this problem.

So he decides to press play.

She comes to life, her steps not exactly confident but more of frantic scramble to dodge all the microphones and recording devices aimed at her. Garbled messes of shouting, questions, and comments swarm her like pissed off bees; he was wrong to believe the topic was her papa, though. It's him. No amount of sidestepping helps Maka evade his name - they toss it around, hoping to bludgeon out more information about their relationship.

Maka doesn't respond well to bullying. Bared teeth don't catch the cornered animal growl that blares out of her the more they mention him. Her irritation is palpable, and even though this occurred hours ago and he hasn't done anything to directly affect her, he's never felt more disgusted with himself for causing her discomfort.

Neatly groomed eyebrows snap together like a zipper being pulled up as a reporter inquires, "How is your boyfriend Soul doing? How are you two dealing with a long distance relationship?"

"We're not dating!" she screeches, blocking the camera's view by digging her face into the crook of her elbow. "LEAVE ME ALONE!"

The video stops and now he can finally sleep.

At least he knows where they stand.

* * *

Jackie must have seen the clip too, because she shares her mozzarella sticks with him the following day when she comes over and keeps the sarcastic commentary to a minimum. She's recuperated quickly from her funk, and Soul wonders if he'll ever achieve such finesse when she springs off her couch.

"C'mon," she says, pulling him to his feet, but not before smacking him with a throw pillow. "Let me take you somewhere fun."

A different variety of tiredness lives in his body. While his mind is clear, it's like his bones are reacting to Maka's absence, aching dully and not letting him rest.

"Where do you wanna go?" Jackie is as relentless as she is gay. Soul knows that there is no way to talk her out of this mission she's enlisted herself in, and requests to be taken to an ice cream buffet. There is nothing as healing as replacing the bitter taste in his mouth with cold creamy sweetness, even if the weather has been ass-numbingly chilly.

Hoodies pulled up and gloved hands tucked into pockets, the pair sets out, Jackie's laptop left charging by the plant Maka had entrusted to him. Looking at it kindles no ire - it's a symbol of forgiveness and goodwill. He's not superstitious, but he hopes it brings about a reconciliation.

He could wait forever for Maka, and what he harbors after hearing her deny any feelings for him isn't resentment but organ-twisting hurt. Is what they had over? Had it been real? Even if she decides not to rekindle their unspoken, unlabeled relationship, can they at least manage to salvage their friendship in some way?

And then, there is also everything that Kim told him. Nothing adds up, and even though it could be solved by talking things out, the fear that he and Maka will end up at each other's throats won't let him text her.

He's so lost.

A life without Maka seems bland and blindingly unfulfilling, but that doesn't mean it isn't liveable.

Too preoccupied with consoling himself, he doesn't notice when Jackie halts and he collides into her. The spectators outside of the reasonably empty ice cream shop gawk at them.

"The hell, Jackie?" he grunts, rubbing his nose.

She doesn't need to answer.

Shaula Gorgon stands before them, dressed in a bright red trench coat and a vicious grin. If Soul didn't know any better, he would say that she's prepared to yank her hand out of her pocket and knife them multiple times, but he's also aware that he tends to exaggerate in order to soften reality's blow.

As the first to recover from the initial earthquake-like shock, Jackie coughs. Years of friendship prepares Soul for the well-practiced icy tone she directs to Shaula. "It seems like we've run into a mediocre devil, Soul."

Whether or not Shaula finds this offensive is debatable - while she doesn't visibly flinch, maliciousness fills her eyes. Denying that his skin crawls would be a lie. Granted, while he's never had the displeasure of talking to her in person, the feigned overly saccharine tone is the same one that takes over when he reads her articles.

"I was just on my way to see you," she says. "Now you've saved me a trip."

"I'm pretty sure that's called harassment," Jackie points out.

Ignoring this, Shaula digs a writing pad and pen out of her large purse, as calm as a windless day. She looks at Soul. "I'll deal with your friend later - first, tell me how you feel about Maka Albarn using you for publicity."

Soul snorts. "That's stupid. Maka doesn't use people, that's disgusting."

Beside him, Jackie fumes in her flannel. "Did she just ignore me?"

"I assume by now you've seen the interview of Maka denying that you two are romantically involved," Shaula continues, gleeful. "What's your reaction?"

"Step off," Soul says, grabbing Jackie's arm and trudging away.

Clicks that sound like gunshots in slow motion trail after them.

"Who do you think she'll use next?" Shaula asks innocently.

"Who do you think needs to shut your mouth?" Jackie retorts.

Flashbacks of holding Maka while she hurled insults at their stalker attack him. The similarity of the situation haunts him - but this time he has perspective and decides to respond differently.

"I don't know what your problem is," he says, careful to feign calmness. "I don't care if you keep writing about my mistakes at Juillard - it's a thing that happened. Just leave Maka out of your shitty writing."

"Speaking of her, do you have anything you want me to say to her? I'm going to do an interview with her in a week," Shaula informs him. Immediately Soul knows that this was her intent - to tell him she's got an upper hand and that she's plotting to further antagonize Maka. It's confirmed when she stops following them and lets them get lost in a crowd.

"She gives me the creeps." Jackie shudders, as if flinging a bug off her sleeve. "She looks like she could murder someone over the smallest disagreement, but I guess that only makes up for her craptastic writing. I'm kind of disappointed she didn't try to beat me up for that post I made about her. I was ready for a fight..."

"She's a special kind of evil," Soul agrees, frowning as he envisions headlines twisting his words.

His head swirls with everything Shaula just told him, trying to decide if it's a tactic to get under his skin.

"I thought you told me that Maka hates the Gorgons. Aren't you going to stop her?" Jackie asks, pale with shock.

"No, stopping Maka is like trying to stop a tornado," he replies, both admiringly and frustratedly. The two emotions seem to go hand in hand when the pigtailed, sleepless girl is the subject.

* * *

Kim's texts to him about " _don't worry_ _about your fight with Maka"_ don't help and he doesn't reply.

Worrying is like blinking to him.

* * *

Graves are six feet deep, but Soul thinks his should be at least a mile underground, so that no one disturbs his remains and his regrets don't find him.

Adoring fan letters arrive in droves, Shaula speculates about Soul and Maka's relationship status, and hysteria about runway modeling blooms silently. Maka doesn't appear at his photoshoot in person but no one lets him forget about her. All his best efforts combined don't deaden the trepidation eating away at his conscious for saying such vile things to her.

Instead of cuddling with Maka in her small room at the Inn, he lounges on the couch more often than not. Distractions from missing her include throwing darts at the board hanging above the TV when he's not channel surfing or searching for more modeling gigs on the internet. Between preparing for the runway show and spending more time alone, he arms himself for _that sinking feeling_ to return, but he remains alert and awake.

Recovery is strange and beautiful. He's afraid it'll be ripped away from him in a blink of an eye, but maybe this fear will never leave him?

Kim reassures him that the video of Maka and the paparazzi meant nothing while she coaches him through runway walking.

"Don't slouch," she scolds for the tenth time in half an hour. "Stick your hips out, lead with your hips, Soul... Swing your arms - not that much!"

Antagonized, he pauses to take a sip from his bottled water. "Am I even doing anything right?"

"Yeah, actually." She gives him a thumbs up. "Keep looking bored, that's perfect."

"I don't understand why they want a newbie like me to be in the show."

"You're so famous now - it'll be good for the company and for your career, and you're so freaky looking that everyone will notice you."

Double-edged compliments and brazen remarks weaved into nonchalant conversations are signs that he's befriending Kim Diehl, who probably wouldn't hesitate to push him out a window if it meant protecting Maka. Not that he blames her - he would do the same plus more.

It's a convincing thought. Since the Shaula Shut-In Run-In, as Jackie coined it, he's been at a loss for how to deter Maka from marching straight into the devil's lair.

"Hey, Kim," he begins, unable to clench his teeth and wear an invisible muzzle. Indirect meddling could be his only option of rescuing Maka from her own mulishness. "Did you know that Maka's gonna do an interview with Shaula?"

Mouth hanging open, she balks, almost dropping the clipboard she's holding. "What?"

"Yeah, me and my friend Jackie ran into Shaula a few days ago-"

Her eyes are wider than a dish plate at this point. "WHAT?"

"I was getting ice cream - yes I know it's cold, but ice cream tastes good, okay? Anyway, Shaula was near there and she followed us around, trying to interview me-"

"Please tell me you didn't," she pleads.

"Course not, I'm not completely stupid!"

Kim jumps off the table where she had been sitting with her legs dangling as she critiqued his walk. "I'm not going to let her do that," she says. "I had no idea she was thinking of doing that - idiot, why didn't you tell me sooner?!"

"I didn't think of it," he defends. "I knew she wouldn't listen to me if I tried to talk her out of it. She's so mad at me."

On the edge of hysteria, Kim bounds towards the door, probably on her way to smack some sense into Maka. His runway coaching can stand to be pushed aside for more important matters.

"I hope one day I find a boy who cares about me like you care about Maka," she says dreamily. "Or a girl."

Soul has no time to shrug off her mushy compliment. "Just do something!"

"I'm going to do some major damage control," she says, saluting him goodbye.

* * *

Nothing Kim says prevents Maka from going through with meeting Shaula face-to-face.

It's like trying to find a lighter in a dark cave - Soul knows nothing about what Maka plans except for the limited information Kim relays to him. When he finds out that the interview is set to be televised, he screams internally, convinced that Shaula has pulled some strings to embarrass Maka on the air. He gives in and calls her, not expecting her to pick up.

"Soul?" her voice is quiet, disbelieving.

"Maka? Maka... Don't do it," he pleads, rolling off his couch as if he could run over to wherever she is and tackle her unapologetically.

"I have to do it, Soul," she says. It's an inappropriate time to be smitten with her and the way each of her words is resolute. He wishes he could reach out and touch her, just to make sure she's real and not some imagined daydream. She is nothing but strength, and he hopes to one day be half as brave. "Don't be mad at me."

"I'm not - why do you think I am?"

"I've been terrible-"

"Where is this coming from?" He hates the distance separating them. If he could just talk with her, they could sort everything out. No resentment or ire clouds her voice. She's evidently been thinking as much as he has, but have they reached the same conclusion - that they need to talk? What the fuck is going on?

"I have to confront Shaula about all the awful things she's been saying about me and my papa," Maka justifies. "Watch the interview, okay?"

The line cuts off before he can process her request.

Watching the shitshow on television is too frightening for him - an irrational sort of panic swaddles him, and he needs to be in a safe, secure place. The couch doesn't supply this for him, but the hallway closet offers him refuge. He stows away with his phone that's opened up to the website he can stream the interview from, and a blanket, because he craves the comfort.

The adrenaline rush is not fun.

Shaula and Maka sit across from each other in high stools, and Soul worries that there isn't a table between them just in case Maka loses her cool and decides to jump her.

The interview starts off with Shaula offering a shitty, all-knowing grin.

"How are you?"

Maka's eruption is more foreseeable than a volcano's, but just as powerful, and Soul definitely feels sorry for Shaula, who doesn't know she's about to be covered in lava. By the way Maka sits - shoulders back, jaw clenched, her normally pleasant expression curled into a sour glare - it's obvious that this interview won't last long.

"I'm tired of the way that you're spreading misogyny through your writing," she shouts, balling her fists, her half-swept up hair standing up as if struck by lightning. "Your articles are nothing but hateful and lies! You're an awful person! The way that you exploit people who are only trying to make a career for themselves is really terrible!"

Shaula's face falls. The attack on her is unexpected, and Soul isn't aware that his own mouth hangs open until drool seeps onto his forearm.

"And, just to make sure that no one's confused, Soul Evans and I _are_ dating, and paparazzi like you haven't made something that's already difficult in the first place any easier!"

It's not exactly a declaration of love, and it doesn't erase the argument they had, but his heart doesn't give a shit and it stutters blithely in his chest. Maka's plan to invade Shaula's turf and beat her at her own game should have been obvious to Soul - at least, that's how it appears.

"Maka," Shaula beings, recuperating from the shock. "How do you feel about your father sleeping around with everyone who isn't your mother?"

 _Low blow_. Ready for anything, Maka shoots back, "He's not perfect, and he's made mistakes."

"How likely is it that Soul will turn out to be like your father?"

Maka jumps off the stool, knocking it down and stalking offscreen.

He stares at his phone for what seems like hours, wondering if he really heard things correctly. Did Shaula really just try that idiotic ploy?

The door swings open, letting in light. It's the lock-pick princess; Jackie looks down at him, heaving a sigh of relief. "I was worried about you when you wouldn't answer the door - why are you in here? Are you okay?"

 _Shit._ This probably doesn't look great, considering his recent weird headspace and apathy toward life. He didn't mean to worry her.

Jackie bends down and shakes him. "Soul, are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says, clutching his phone as if to hold on to something, because he's feeling too many things and he might be swept away.

* * *

In his sleep he doesn't dream of Maka, but thinks about her in parts. Chapped lips, expressive eyebrows, long legs, dexterous hands, and a will so potent it could shatter boulders into small pebbles. She is ethereal and even in his sleep he can't believe she's changed his life with a single glance during an open call.

* * *

"Two more days until the show," Kilik says. Though the countdown enflames the apprehension lying in wait to consume him, Soul appreciates all the enthusiasm and support his friends offer. They're all sitting around Black*Star's coffee table, gorging on fajitas.

"Are you going to finish that?" Black*Star asks, pointing at Soul's untouched plate with a greasy finger.

Jackie punches him. "Stop stealing his food! He needs all the energy he can get."

"Maybe I should take up modeling too, since it doesn't look like I can box again," Black*Star jokes, and then turns to Soul. "I guess this boot will give me points with the ladies at the after party." For emphasis, he thumps the plastic with his knuckles.

"I shouldn't have invited you," Soul says, regretful. "Don't act like an asshole, okay?"

"I'm excited," Jackie says, piling rice and beans into her already overflowing tortilla. "It's going to give me so much material for my blog."

"And we can all meet _girls_ ," Black*Star stresses, high fiving Kilik.

"That too," Jackie grins, taking an overzealous bite of her fajita.

"That reminds me! I want to introduce you to Maka's best friend Kim," Soul says, and he's lowkey excited to play cupid.

* * *

Wes flies into the city the night before the show.

"It's so good to see you happy again," he says, shouldering his carry-on duffle bag. "I feel like you've never been this present before."

 _Really?_ Soul wants to ask, incredulous. Is this what happiness looks like on him? They're standing in the same terminal where he greeted Maka, and she's the sole inhabitant of his thoughts. While it's a nice relief to talk to Wes again without envy suffocating him, he craves dimple pecks and cold fingertips tracing the bones of his face.

"Everything's going to be just fine, little brother," Wes comforts him, and Soul wonders what others see written on his face, because he's perfectly numb.

* * *

Backstage, the flurry of movement inspires dizziness.

Clothing racks zoom across the crowded space. Stylists practically rip the clothing off their models, frantically giving directions ("raise your hands up" and "this fabric might be itchy," etc) and launching them back out onto the runway. Counting to ten as he inhales and exhales is one way he's learned to cope, trying to exorcise the anxious butterflies from his life.

Where's Maka? Where's his stylist?

What's most important to him right now isn't the runway show, but clearing the air with Maka.

Soul's heart thumps like the echo of a distant hammer. He's standing to the side of the discord, waiting for her to materialize with his clothing. But when she appears, it's more of a panting jog than an upbeat strut.

"Are you okay?" she asks when she's within earshot.

"Yeah, I think," he answers. Twin pigtails let him know that she's either woken up late or hasn't slept - the urge to kiss her forehead and tuck her in for a good night's rest has never been more difficult to subdue.

After such a long time apart and many harsh words spewed, it's surreal that she's standing in front of him as if she's restraining herself from jumping into his arms.

"Nervous?"

"A little," he admits.

"It's going to be okay. You're okay," she comforts. He must look as awful as he feels. It's not her nature to start another fight when he's petrified with anxiety. There is less heaviness hanging between them, more unspoken feelings than before their argument.

"Sorry I'm late," she says, wincing. "My papa wouldn't stop hugging me."

"He's here?"

"Yeah," she smiles softly, cautiously. "We've been spending a lot of time together, avoiding the paparazzi." She brightens up. "Do you want to meet him?"

"I would hate to," he smiles. Now isn't the time to ask for details, but he hopes she's unpacked some of the sadness she's been carrying around with her like a shadow. He hopes they'll have time to talk later.

"Good," she says. "I'll introduce you."

Soul awkwardly shifts his weight from one foot to the other in the ensuing silence, and Maka holds her hands behind her back, at a loss for words.

In unison, they burst out, "I'm sorry-"

"I was mad, and I didn't mean to say those things about you and Juilliard, or that you didn't want me to be successful-"

"I'm so sorry-"

Maka gently pinches his shoulder. "Don't interrupt me! And stop saying sorry-"

"Sorry," he says again, sheepishly.

"You're just such an idiot," she says, both jubilantly and exasperatedly.

"I know."

"And I'm an idiot, too."

"I know."

She doesn't even pause to chide him for agreeing. "Hurry up and take off your clothes, then. You have a runway show to be in."

"I'm so sorry," he keeps saying, unable to clarify why - for the nagging, for not initiating the conversation about her work habits more firmly as soon as he noticed symptoms of her overworking. In retrospect, there are numerous things he could have handled differently, and part of this he credits to his tendency to be too hard on himself.

Mostly, he's sorry for the lost time the misunderstanding cost them.

"We'll have plenty of time to talk later," she reassures him, and the way she shyly pinks is a promise in itself.

Slipping off his shirt and yanking down his skinny jeans, she shakes her head, sighing at his questionable fashion choices. He suppresses a shiver elicited by the frigidness of the air and Maka's gaze.

"Blue boxers again?"

"They're my lucky boxers-"

Her snort is a welcomed melody. "Soul, please-"

"I'm just so freaking nervous," he explains, feeling his pulse in his belly. He's come to accept that anxiety is his lifelong companion, though not all of it is necessarily negative. It's one of his vital signs.

"I know," she soothes, gently removing a dark blue suit from its cover. "Here, put this on-"

But the jitters unsteady his hands - or is that because he's disarmingly ecstatic at being so close to Maka? He can't tell anymore; his brain is mush thanks to the adrenaline rush. It's like the final milliseconds before the descent of a roller coaster. The fast plummet is worth the dread.

Maka kneels down, instructing him to hold on to her shoulder for balance if he needs it. "Step into the pant legs," she directs. He's clear headed enough to be reminded of a parent helping their child dress, and this isn't how he wants their relationship to unfold.

"Hey Maka, I have lots of things to tell you," he rambles, his pulse now resembling the roar of a fireworks show. "I saw your interview with Shaula Gorgon."

"And I want to hear what you have to say," she vows. "But work first, and talking later-" Catching herself, she offers him a bashful wince. "I have to work on some things still, I guess."

"Me too," he says, trying to emphasize that she's not alone. Why can't he say what he means?

"Maybe we can work on things together?" she asks, hesitant, the meaning behind her question apparent. It will forever confuse Soul that she could think he would say no.

"Of course, we can work everything together," he echoes, smiling.

By now they've conquered the feat of pulling up his pants. The backstage manager calls for Soul - "you have a minute!" - and the fact that he's not ready does nothing to quell the panic thundering in his blood.

"Fuck, I can't believe I agreed to this runway thing," he bemoans as Maka cries that she can't find his socks or his tie.

"I'm so sorry," she chants over the flurry of models lining up. "I'm supposed to be your stylist and I can't even find what you're supposed to be wearing."

Soul grasps her shoulders. "It's fine, Maka."

"But-"

"Shh, I just won't go on the runway. It's fine."

This is akin to failure to her. She makes a break for the clothing rack, but he's learned not to let go of her. He pulls her close, his veins pounding because he's never been so brave, faint eyelashes fluttering as she melts in his arms.

"Soul, there's no time for this right now-"

But there is, it's preordained.

"Can I?" he asks, looking at her lips, and she doesn't miss a beat.

" _Yes_! Hurry," she breathes, and Soul cups her face and closes the space between them in a flash. Kissing is like instinct, and their teeth clash in their desperation to stitch themselves together at the mouth. Maka is warm and _so soft_ and everything hurts him - he is interested in softness, in the way her muscles move underneath her skin as she swathes her arms around his neck.

The manager waves him over. "Soul Evans, you're up next!"

"Go!" Maka encourages, detaching herself hastily and propelling him forward with a shove. He had forgotten how much strength she possesses, but that thought fades as he stumbles through the heavy black curtains and onto the runway.

The floor shoots chills up his spine, but maybe that's his skin lighting up at Maka's touch. As the spotlights sway and a sea of faceless, murmuring people look up at him, it slowly occurs to him that he's barefoot, shirtless, belt-less, and his zipper may or may not be open.

It's not exactly what he was assigned to model - it's only half of the suit, a half like him, and everything's going to be fine.

Just fine.

At the end of the runway he twirls around, exhilarated and more than ready for the trek backstage to reacquaint himself with the heaven that is feeling Maka's smile underneath his lips.


	8. Epilogue: i held your hand during a fire

Jackie and Kim tie the knot after dating for a long time -

Three months.

It had been love at first sight, a whirlwind romance since the moment Soul introduced them at the after-show party. Their relationship blossomed fast, holding hands before the night was over and moving in together less than two weeks after meeting. It's only right that his best friend belongs with Maka's best friend, he thinks, and now he can get even with Kim by lecturing her about treating Jackie right.

Kilik offers to bake the desserts for the reception, Soul and Black*Star each pay a portion to rent the five star restaurant, and Wes lifts his hiatus on violin playing to perform. It's just what Soul wanted for Jackie - companionship, support, and someone to take on those mushy dates she had always raved about.

Beside him at the table, Maka dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief.

"Don't cry, it's not like anyone died..." Black*Star's attempts to console are laughable. For Soul, seeing the two together is a little odd. He had kept Maka and his friends separate for so long that they still seem like haphazardly cut images from different magazines.

"I'm not _crying_ ," Maka lies, sniffling. The peak of her nose is stained red with the effort of attempting to curtail more tears. "I'm happy. I promise."

"I just love weddings so much," Wes says, sighing deeply. "The dresses you designed are beautiful," he compliments Maka.

"And your violin playing was really nice," she replies.

"It was okay," Soul agrees nonchalantly.

Gasping, Wes slaps a hand on Soul's shoulder. "That's so sweet of you, little brother."

Maka laughs, grabbing his hand underneath the table.

"Excuse me while I go hunt down more of these delicious cupcakes," his brother says, drifting away toward the buffet table.

"He tries to be so proper but really he's full of shit," Soul says, but none of it holds any true meaning. "He's a sarcastic asshole. It's hereditary."

"I'm gonna go see what Kilik's doing," Black*Star announces, scraping his chair back. His black suit fits too loosely and he almost trips over the too long pant leg.

"He's _working_ ," Soul emphasizes. "Baking. Leave him alone."

But Black*Star also wanders away, now bootless but still walking with a slight limp. A middle fingered wave is his parting gift.

"He's worse than I imagined," Maka says, adjusting her floral crown. The gold and maroon compliments her natural glow. She looks more goddess-like than usual. "I'm more and more appalled each time I hang out with him."

"That's pretty much what everyone says about him," Soul snorts.

They've been taking things slower since the fashion show, talking through the miscommunication and working on being more _open_. This is supremely challenging for Soul. Expressing himself has never been painless, silence is his go-to response, and he holds on to negative emotions like a collector.

Relationships are _hard,_ but he really wants to grow alongside with Maka. She's conquered so many of her fears by allowing space in her life for her papa and verbally slapping Shaula Gorgon during the interview.

Really, he just wants to be Maka's equal. While he has a few more modeling gigs scheduled, he's still hesitant to take on any huge projects because Mjolnir Strikes has a few more photoshoots coming up - not to mention, more fashion shows. Talks of his wardrobe malfunction earned him notoriety, especially for pulling off the walk without any other blunders, as if he had been meant to model only pants.

Shaula blabbed that he just wanted to make-out with Maka backstage, and it wasn't a lie so he didn't complain for once.

Although the writer received negative backlash for her habit of fabricating outrageous gossip, it hadn't stopped her from continuing to spread rumors. At least Maka and Soul got closure and have learned to semi-ignore the paparazzi.

"So," Maka says, squaring up her shoulders with his and leaning forward, the way she does when she's preparing for a difficult conversation. "I'm moving."

"Oh," he breathes. His heart is a red balloon going _pop_ when it meets a pinneedle.

"I found a one bedroom apartment-"

"In California? So you can work with Tsubaki?" Sorrow clots his throat. He may be getting ahead of himself - she hasn't _ended_ their relationship just _yet_ , but it sure feels like she's closing the door to something great. But she's built for success, and he won't stand in the way -

"No, actually," she says, beaming. "She's moving out here with her husband Mifune! This is a better location for fashion anyway-"

He won't allow himself to breathe just yet. "Wait, so-"

A deafening explosion and a howl suspends their conversation: "FIRE!"

The whole room freezes save for Kilik's erratic breathing. Hair covered in ash, he clings to the doorway to the kitchen, his glasses cracked and sitting askew on his maniacal face.

"FIRE, EVERYONE GET OUT!"

Pandora's box is opened. At first no one reacts - is this real? But then people spring to life, evacuating in a panic.

"OUTTA MY WAY," Black*Star hollers over the trumpet of the fire alarms, emerging from behind Kilik and bulldozing the brides into the three layered cake, stealing an occupied stroller. Using it as a scooter (to protect his ankle, Soul imagines, feeling weirdly proud that the boxer has matured enough to think ahead), he barrels towards the double doors. "ME FIRST!"

"BLACK*STAR!" Kim shrieks, wiping frosting off of Jackie's face. "GET READY FOR YOUR FUNERAL!"

When Soul glances back at Maka, she's calm and dangling a key between them.

"Want to move in with me?" she asks, quietly, a serene beauty amongst the chaos unfurling around them. If Soul hadn't been fixated on her lips, he wouldn't believe what he had heard.

Grinning, he intertwines his fingers with hers after dropping the key in his blazer pocket. Maka ushers them toward the nearest exit, but not before pecking at his dimple. "I'll follow you anywhere, Albarn."


End file.
